Czytaj książkę: «The Babysitter»

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

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

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Prologue

France

13th August

Siobhan

The day my husband is arrested on suspicion of murder is the hottest of the year. Sweat is clinging to the underside of my arms; my top, hastily thrown on at the sound of the bell echoing through the house, is unflatteringly tight around my stomach, dark lines of perspiration beginning to appear on the clingy white material. The bell is an old-fashioned one, pulled by a thin piece of rope hanging by the door of the villa, and the noise of it wakes all of us up – me, Callum, our daughter Emma and my sister Maria. My eyes alight on the digital clock – it is 09.03 and we have all slept late. We are on holiday. France is in the grip of a heatwave; already, it is 33 degrees.

We came to France two days ago, to stay at Maria’s holiday house in a tiny village on the baking north-west coast: Saint Juillet, overlooked by a rocky peak that shades part of the garden. There is no police station in the village – just a tiny church that seats forty, a fancy restaurant overlooking the hills, a Saturday fish stall, and a boulangerie, the opening hours of which are random and confusing. The police must have risen early this morning, made the drive over from Rouen or Dieppe, navigated the treacherous, steep hill down to the holiday villa. No cars come down here unless they absolutely have to. Unless it’s an emergency.

There are two officers, a man and a woman, both French, with heavy accents that my sleep-addled brain is slow to understand. My husband is in a faded T-shirt and boxers, his feet bare, dark hairs covering his legs. At first, I think that something must have happened at home – my mind goes to my mother, elderly now, a frail 86-year-old living stubbornly on in a care home on the outskirts of Norwich, alone apart from the nurses. Her grasp of reality has diminished severely of late; it has been a few weeks since I’ve made the dutiful trip to see her and guilt squeezes my insides, fast and unpleasant. Callum’s cousin has just given birth, and I worry that something has gone wrong, picturing Rosa on blood-stained sheets in a hospital room. But of course, it is neither of those things.

Behind me, I feel Emma’s presence, the pad of her socked feet. She’s in her pyjamas, blonde hair tied back in a bun. At 16, this morning she is childlike and innocent. A second later, Maria appears, a blue silk kimono wrapped around her tanned limbs. Our eyes meet; her gaze as familiar to me as my own. She is a mirror of me, a more beautiful version. Our mother often gets the two of us confused now.

Callum is saying something, protesting, his pidgin French failing to convey the anger and shock that his hand gestures show perfectly. My heart is beginning to beat faster, a tiny drum in my chest. The police are stern, their faces set and unmoveable. Too late, I realise that Emma shouldn’t be here. Quickly, I turn from the door and take my daughter’s arm, trying to pull her back towards the stairs.

‘What’s happening?’ she asks, her voice still smudged with sleep, and Callum whips round, trying to reassure her, using the calming voice he always does when she’s anxious. He can be so kind to her when he wants to be, but his voice is still tinged with an edge of uncertainty that only I can hear.

‘It’s nothing, sweetheart, this is some sort of mistake – Siobhan, will you tell them? This is all a mistake, darling. Maria, you speak to them, will you? Please?’ He smiles at my sister, but it’s strained, the muscles in his cheeks tight and false.

My French is no better than his – my mind flits back to my O Level teacher droning on, a bluebottle buzzing against the window in a hot, dry classroom, the spill of blue ink of my fingers – but we are both able to pick up the word the taller of the police officers is saying. Meurtre. Meurtre. Vous êtes suspecté du meurtre. I am frozen, I cannot move.

We suspect you. Murder. Maria, whose command of the language is much better than ours, steps forward and begins to speak in rapid, urgent French. It is too fast for me; I don’t understand.

And then they say the name of the victim, clear as a bell, and I feel my vision begin to blur, panic grip my throat. It’s her. Caroline Harvey.

One of them steps forward, and in that second, our nightmare begins.

Chapter One

France

11th August: Two days before the arrest

Siobhan

There’s barely any signal in this house. We’re all eating dinner out on the terrace, red-flagged stones underneath our feet. It’s our first night in France, where the air is hot and still and the sound of the crickets is constant and deafening. Behind us, the swimming pool glistens, bright blue because of the little robot hoover Maria drops into it every day. It’s a clever little thing that zooms through the water, up and down like one of those uber-mothers at the local leisure centre back home. But Ipswich seems a world away today; Suffolk has nothing in common with the stifling heat of the French coast. The uber-mothers can’t get to me here.

‘Emma, aren’t you going to eat the rest of that mozzarella?’ Callum asks, and I flick my eyes over to my daughter’s plate, surprised to see it virtually untouched. Her appetite usually outstrips mine – oh for the metabolism of a 16-year-old. But she ignores me; she’s playing with her iPhone, shifting it around on the table, trying to pick up 4G.

‘The signal’s crap here, Emma,’ Maria says, ‘that’s why I installed the landline. Before I bought this place, there was nothing, can you believe it?’ She laughs, spears a piece of tuna onto her fork. I cooked it myself, followed an English recipe to the letter. A thank you for having us gesture, I suppose. I don’t like feeling in debt to her, or to anyone.

‘I know you want WiFi, Ems, I’ll sort it for next summer,’ Maria continues. ‘Mmm. This is delicious, S.’

I feel a flicker of pleasure that she, at least, likes the meal. My sister has high standards, which is why, according to our mother, she’s still alone at forty-six. Nobody’s good enough. I don’t broach the subject with Maria any more. I don’t think she likes it. She’s always made me feel as though I am the boring one, choosing marriage and kids over freedom and fun. Never getting my own way. I’m the mistress of my own life, Siobhan, she always tells me. I haven’t met anyone she’s been dating for years, although I don’t doubt there’s at least someone keeping her sheets warm.

Emma shifts in her seat, barely acknowledging Maria, a strand of hair falling slightly over her face. My daughter is wearing a loose, emerald green dress, the kind of thing I could never pull off any more. She and Maria usually get on so well, but tonight nobody is in my daughter’s good books, it seems.

My husband’s gaze falls on me, and I can almost feel him willing me to step in, to snap at her, to cajole her into coming out of whatever latest strop she is in and eat the food on her plate. In this scenario, i.e. an Emma mood, I’m usually the bad cop. But tonight, I’m not going to be. After all, I’m on holiday. And I’ve already cooked the meal, done my bit.

Instead, I take a long sip of my wine, sourced from the nearest vineyard, bought for us as a welcome gift by Maria. My sister has owned the villa for two years, and is still in the process of perfecting it. She’s an interior designer with her own business, forever carting expensive rugs and must-have lamps to and fro across the Channel. As a result, the house is an enviable mish-mash of English antiques mixed with French chic. It was her idea for us all to come out here this summer and make use of it; partly an excuse to show the place off, I’m sure, but hard to say no to all the same. You need a break, she said, and for a moment I wondered if she knew more than she’d let on about Callum and I. But it’s doubtful. I haven’t told anyone about the latest development, not yet. I’m still deciding what to do.

Callum booked the flights for us a few months ago, and the three of us flew out here from Southend whilst Maria drove a carful of antiques sourced from a Suffolk auction house through the Channel Tunnel, arriving just in time to let us in and see the envy flit across our faces. I was anxious on the way to the airport, worried about how the holiday would pan out. This might be the sticking plaster that keeps our family together. Either that or it’s the tear that pulls us apart.

In this second, though, I’m glad that we’re here. The wine is delicious, and for a moment, I let myself believe that this is all mine – this sprawling, escapist luxury – but then Emma pushes back her chair and the moment breaks.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, and I watch the hem of her silky dress fall to her ankles as she stands up and leaves the table, disappearing behind the sliding glass doors of the villa.

After a few seconds, music starts – she’s turned on the Sonos system in the downstairs basement, blasting angry, loud music that sets my teeth on edge. The house is two storeys, with the basement in reality forming two bedrooms and another bathroom. Emma and Maria are sleeping down there, while Callum and I are on the ground floor, level with the swimming pool. There’s an en suite leading off from our room, a power shower and fluffy white towels. Expensive soap and hand moisturiser that smells of geranium.

Callum sighs, the sound familiar. Maria blows out her breath, the worry evident on her face. She’s had the same facial expressions since we were teenagers, all those years ago now. More years than I’d like to count, to be honest. I turned forty-four in the spring. Still, I’ll always be her younger sibling. That’s something, I suppose.

I take an olive from the little black pot on the table, feel the oil slick on my fingertips.

‘Change of scenery hasn’t helped with the mood swings, then,’ Callum says wryly, raising his wine glass to his lips, and I shrug my shoulders, swallow the olive. He smiles at me, his teeth white and his eyes crinkling. That handsome look that I know so well.

‘We’ve been here less than twenty-four hours. Let’s give her a chance.’ My voice sounds calm, measured.

It isn’t how I feel inside. But then, I’ve got good at keeping my feelings to myself lately. I’ve had to, after all. Secrets are becoming my forte.

We finish the meal, and then with still no reappearance from Emma, move onto the comfy chairs on the veranda and open another bottle of wine – red this time, five euros in the local supermarket on our way over here. Callum’s mood has perked up; he is becoming more jovial, his arm around my waist, his voice loud in my ear. I try to relax into his touch, but it’s hard.

‘I was thinking I’d take you to see Rouen in the morning. I can unload the car of all the junk I brought over so that we can all fit,’ Maria is saying, a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders now as the temperature cools. I roll my eyes; ‘junk’ – the contents of her car are probably worth thousands judging by the rest of the house. Not for Maria the delights of IKEA – the pieces she brings over are each carefully selected, the best she can afford.

We took a taxi from Caen Airport, but Maria in her own car is by far the best driver, able to navigate the narrow French roads with much more ease than either of us. Although she lives in England, just down the road from us in Woodbridge, she comes out to the villa all the time, and every summer she spends a few weeks here alone. By car, the journey is less than six hours. The locals in the village recognise her, at least. ‘They always ask me why I haven’t got a man,’ she told us earlier tonight, laughing, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. ‘They ask me when I’m going to bring un petit chou to visit them all.’

‘They obviously don’t know you that well then,’ Callum had said, grinning at her, and she’d laughed again, the sound echoing over the hot red tiles, but the tone of it didn’t quite ring true. I wonder if she could be more lonely than we think. I’ve tried to discuss it with Callum, once or twice, but he’s never very interested. I think she was seeing someone more seriously for a while, a man from her work, but she was always very cagey about it and I never got very far in my questioning.

‘Rouen in the morning would be lovely,’ I say now, waiting for Callum to agree. Since we’ve been out here, there has been something off about his mood, but I can’t work out if I’m just imagining it. There is a nervous energy, a pulse of unease that began on the flight earlier today. He has never been an anxious flyer, but this time he was on edge for the whole hour, his eyes darting around the plane, his fingers tapping on his phone until an air hostess told him to stop. I smiled at her after that, and ordered a glass of wine. Emma stared out of the window the entire time; I could hear the tinny beat of the music coming through her headphones. Callum bought her expensive ones – he’s never been able to say no to her. Well, he’s never been able to say no to anyone except me. That’s why people love him. The ultimate yes-man.

‘Callum,’ I say, ‘wouldn’t that be great? Maria’s offering to take us to Rouen. I’ve always wanted to go, actually. See the cathedral, the churches.’

He glances at her quickly, but it’s too dark for me to see the expression on his face.

‘Yeah,’ he says at last, predictably, ‘I’d love that. I’m sure Ems would too. Thanks, Maria.’

She inclines her head, then stands. ‘More wine, S?’

She’s always called me S, ever since we were small, as though saying my full name is a little too much for her. My glass is almost empty; I hadn’t realised.

‘Yes please,’ I say, and she moves away, back into the light of the house, her shadow tall and willowy in the darkness. Her hair is a dark brown waterfall, whilst my own is beginning to be tinged with the odd grey. I wonder if it’s time for me to start dyeing it, if Maria would admit to doing hers. I know she does, I’ve seen the packets in her bathroom cabinet.

‘Isn’t it great to get away from it all?’ Callum says to me when she’s gone, throwing his head back against the cushioned headrest, staring up at the stars. It’s dark now, the only light the glow from the house and the shimmer of a couple of antimosquito candles. His body language has become more relaxed as the evening has gone on; either that or it’s the alcohol working its magic.

‘Mmm,’ I say non-committally, smiling at him as he points out Orion’s Belt, the saucepan, the North Star.

He pulls me closer, lightly kissing me on the forehead, and lets out a sigh of contentment. ‘I feel free here,’ he says suddenly, ‘really free’. The kiss feels like a stamp; I’m his property, after all. To have and to hold.

His phone, jammed against my hip, buzzes with a message.

‘God, this must be the only spot in the whole place with a reception!’ he says, and I turn away as he looks at it, fix my gaze on the bright lights in the distance, wondering how long we’re going to carry on pretending. One more night? One more week? One more year? I don’t know how much more I can take.

Chapter Two

Ipswich, Suffolk

3rd August: One week earlier

Caroline

I miss you, I type out, then watch as the letters slowly erase themselves under the firm grip of my thumb. How are you? I write instead, which is better, but not perfect, and then I hit send before I can think about it any more.

I promised myself I wouldn’t be like this. Promised I’d keep away. For my own sake. I know what he is now, I know what he made me do. The awfulness of it. But it’s a Sunday morning, and I’ve got that particularly horrible, deep in the gut sort of loneliness beginning to form, snaking its way up my stomach and into my throat. The glasses of wine last night didn’t help either; I’m going to stop drinking, properly this time; I’m going to stop being dependent on both booze and Callum Dillon at the exact same moment. God, I’m pathetic. Why are bad habits so hard to break?

My phone buzzes and I leap for it, but it’s just Jenny, asking if I want to come round to hers for a meal with her and her husband tonight. My fingers tighten around the phone. No, Jenny, I don’t want to come for a meal in your posh house and watch as you and Rick coo over your brand new baby. I don’t want to stare at your fridge full of wedding invitations, your sweet little high chair, or your giant Smeg fridge. I don’t need any confirmation of how full your life is compared to mine.

I take a deep breath, then type out a reply to her and bury my phone underneath the pillow next to me in a vain attempt to stop myself from checking it for messages from him.

It’s only a week until they all go on holiday to France. He’s moaned about it, told me how difficult it is for him to get time off. He’s so busy, so busy and important. The two of us went on a rare night away a month ago, stayed in a little B&B in Norfolk, the best he could manage, but of course I lapped it up. He left his suitcase here afterwards, didn’t want his wife to find it. He hasn’t even come back to get it – he’d rather buy another one than face seeing me again, it seems. It’s all there is of him here – no toothbrush, no razor, no crumpled boxer shorts. It’s almost as if he’s never been here at all. As though our entire relationship has been solely confined to inside my head.

I can’t stop thinking about them going away together, picturing it all. He told me ages ago, before everything happened, that his sister-in-law had a place in France they were going to visit, although he wouldn’t say much more than that. Where in France? I asked him, but he laughed, kissed me on the nose, told me it didn’t matter. Callum, don’t worry, I’m not going to turn up on the doorstep, I said, and he tugged gently on my hair, teasing me. I wouldn’t put it past you. I tried to find pictures of it after that, googled his sister-in-law’s name. Maria Wilcox. She’s very pretty, just like Siobhan. Even prettier, in fact, like Siobhan with an Instagram filter. Good genes, the Wilcox clan. I couldn’t find a photo of the villa, though. I don’t know what it’s called.

I don’t want to think about them going on holiday together; I can’t bear it. Even after what he did to me, the thought of him playing happy families makes me feel sick. I put an end to things, told him it was over. And it is over. It has to be, this time. After everything that’s happened this year, I need to make the decision to put myself first. It’s what my mum would’ve said to me, if she was here. Eighteen months is long enough to conduct an extra-marital affair, especially one with a man like Callum Dillon. Jenny told me once that she thinks he’s a misogynist, and I looked up the definition that night: a person who dislikes, despises or is strongly prejudiced against women. Three months ago, I’d have said the exact opposite was true. Callum likes women too much. And women like him. He’s charming, at first – he reels you in with a smile, an in-joke. When we first met, I felt as though I’d been selected, as if a torchlight had picked me out of the darkness. Now I wish I’d stayed in the shadows.

My phone beeps again, the sound barely muffled under the cushion, and my fingers scrabble to unlock the screen. Go on, Caro, please! I’d love to see you. It’ll be fun! Jenny, again. I stare at the exclamation points: so unnecessarily enthusiastic. I hesitate, try to think clearly, to push away the fug of loneliness that is threatening to crowd out my thoughts.

I am still in my pyjamas, sitting upright in my bed, the curtains resolutely closed against the sunlight even though it has gone 11 a.m.. The room feels stale. An empty wine glass stands on the dresser; it will leave an ugly stain. My legs are prickly, unshaven and white. I think of Siobhan Dillon’s legs, long and tanned, stretched out on a sun lounger by a sparkling blue pool, the sun a burning hot sphere in the sky above her. Callum’s hand making its way up her thigh. No. I force myself to push the images away, to stop obsessing. Obsession’s never good for anyone; the therapist told me that after Mum died. But I don’t think obsession is something you develop, or get rid of. You’re born with it – you either have it or you don’t. It might shift focus sometimes, but it never truly goes away.

The day yawns out ahead of me like a blank canvas, and I feel a fluttering sense of panic at the thought of staying here, stuck in this room, waiting to hear from him, even though I have told myself that it is over. What good will that do?

OK. I’ll be there, I write to Jenny, and within seconds the reply pings back, a smiley, overexcited emoji that makes me grit my teeth, just slightly. But perhaps I am wrong. Being too harsh. Maybe going to see Jenny will take me out of myself a little; the baby, Eve, will presumably be tucked up in bed, and maybe her husband isn’t quite as annoyingly smug as I remember. Perhaps I can have a good time. Eve. The christening invite is still floating around the flat somewhere; at the time, I couldn’t bring myself to go. It was too painful. But I’m better now. Much better. Or at least, I’m trying to be.

Feeling newly resolved, I force myself to pull back the duvet and ease myself out of bed, my feet touching the cold floorboards. I try to avoid my reflection, because I know what I’ll see – my long hair feels greasy and unkempt, my face will be slightly puffy from the wine-induced crying I did last night. I think of the day Callum and I met, how different I am now. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Not when he’s got Siobhan Dillon for a wife.

Jenny lives on the other side of Ipswich, right by the south side of the docks. It’s a ten-minute walk from my flat on Woodmill Road and I decide the cooling evening air might help me decompress; besides, it’s still light. July and August have been kind to us this year, hot and sticky; Suffolk has baked under the summer heat. Normally I’d like it, but in my current mood it feels like a punishment. I think briefly of Callum and Siobhan, limbs entangled on a huge white bed, the doors flung open to stave off the humidity. I think of them emerging from a plane into crisp French air, pulling expensive sunglasses down over their faces, smiling at each other as the first wave of warmth hits them. I bet Siobhan speaks perfect French, on top of everything else.

The docks are lovely at this time of year; the water curves around the harbourside and the sails of the boats chink in the breeze. Ipswich often gets a bad rap, I’ve always thought, but I like it here – it has everything I need. And it’s better than Stowmarket, where I grew up, but still close enough to visit Mum’s grave if I want to. I haven’t for a while. I think she’d be ashamed of me, of what I’ve become.

As I walk, the restaurants sparkle in the light, but peering at the glowing windows makes me feel worse. I see a couple, smiling at each other over deep, full glasses of wine on the table in front of them, and my stomach clenches. That could be me and Callum. That was me and Callum. A woman comes out of the Pizza Express on the corner, pushing a pram, followed by a tall man holding the hand of a child. The perfect nuclear family – everything I wanted. Everything that is totally out of my reach.

Forcing myself to keep walking, I round the corner and approach Jenny’s house. It’s set back from the road, in a nice-looking row of buildings that face the water. I remember when she and Rick bought it, just over a year ago; they posted a picture on Instagram of their faces pressed together, keys dangling in her diamond-ringed hand.

I’ll never post a picture like that. I’ve got nobody to post one with.

Jenny’s got little window boxes neatly laden with summer flowers, the leaves wilting a bit in the heat. As I approach the front door, I reach out and push my finger into the soil in the box nearest to me; it is dry beneath my skin. Perhaps I’ll remind her to water them. She shouldn’t take things for granted that way.

‘Caro!’

I’ve barely knocked when the door is swinging open, and Jenny is engulfing me, her arms tight around my torso, her perfume sweet in my face. She kisses me on the cheek, then takes hold of both of my shoulders, stands back as though appraising me. What does she think when she looks at me, I wonder; does she find me wanting? Not enough?

‘Come in, come in,’ she says, letting go of me and gesturing inside the house. She’s wearing a long cream cardigan and turned up jeans, effortlessly mumsy. I’ve known Jenny since university, but the woman in front of me is almost unrecognisable from the girl I used to share halls with in Leeds, the girl who’d go out in a tiny dress with a WKD in each hand and too-high heels on her feet. No, that Jenny has well and truly vanished.

‘Wine? Tea? Gin? What can I get you? Eve’s sleeping, thank God.’

Eve.

‘Wine please,’ I say, forcing myself not to check my phone for the fiftieth time since this morning. Callum hasn’t replied to my how are you? even though the cruel blue ticks on WhatsApp make it obvious that he’s read it. I follow Jenny into the house, my eyes taking in the shiny silver-framed pictures on the walls, the photos of baby Eve in various outfits – swaddled in blankets Eve, wrapped up for snow day Eve, Halloween Eve, her tiny face poking out of a pumpkin costume. My heart seems to close in on itself, like a tightening fist.

‘Caroline, hey.’ My heart sinks as I hear Rick’s voice, and then he’s in front of me, smiling widely and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. The French way. France. Callum’s holiday. No.

I push the thoughts away and accept the large glass of wine Jenny is holding out to me, my fingers gripping it tightly. It’s not that I don’t like Rick, exactly, it’s more that together with Jenny, the pair of them represent everything I haven’t got. Everything I am a million miles away from having, because of how stupid I was.

‘I’m so glad Eve nodded off before you came!’ says Jenny, her back to me, bustling around with the fridge. ‘Really, it’s a miracle. It’s been so hard to get her down recently, hasn’t it, Rick darling? The terrible twos, starting early. Just our luck!’ She laughs, the sound high and tinkling, and I feel the words stab into me like tiny poisoned arrows. You don’t know how lucky you are.

‘Have a seat, Caro,’ Rick says, and I sit down on one of their high, fashionable stools. They had a breakfast bar installed just before Christmas, part of their house renovation. It must have cost them a fortune.

‘I’ve got fresh pasta,’ Jenny tells me, and I smile at her.

‘Sounds great.’

The wine tastes weirdly sweet, too warm in the August air.

‘So how are you, Caro?’ Rick asks, smiling at me. His teeth are very white; perfectly so. ‘What’s been going on? How’s the illustration game?’

I smile back, forcing myself to try to stay in the moment, not to think about Callum.

‘It’s great,’ I say, ‘really great, actually. Lots of work coming in. I’m doing a children’s book right now.’

‘Ah, well, send it our way when it’s done! We want to get Eve reading as early as possible, don’t we, Jen?’ He glances over at her, rubbing his hands together as though the idea of starting a child reading early is his own version of reinventing the wheel.

‘We certainly do!’ she says, coming to sit down next to me at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, smaller than mine. Sensible Jenny. Her rings glisten under the lights. I remember the day she and Rick got engaged; she posted a picture on Facebook of her hand, fingers splayed, diamonds glittering. Thank God I’d had my nails done, the caption said. Thank God indeed, I thought sourly.

‘And, so, tell us!’ Jenny leans closer to me. I almost want to laugh, it’s so quick. They’ve managed to get any interest in my work out of the way in under a minute. Now onto the good stuff. My love life. The bit we’ve all been waiting for. I take another gulp of wine, feel it slide easily down my throat.

‘How’s the dating going?’

Jenny’s put a little bowl of olives out on the table between us, and I watch as Rick pops one into his mouth – green and fat. His teeth close around it, like those of a wolf.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘I haven’t really done too much lately, I—’

‘Oh, Caroline!’ Jenny gives a mock-sigh, throwing both her skinny little arms up into the air. ‘You promised, this year, this was the summer you were really going to give it a go. Didn’t you!’ She nudges her husband. ‘Didn’t she, Rick! You were there. You remember.’

‘You did indeed,’ he says, grinning at me, reaching for another plump olive.

Underneath the table, I dig my nails into my thigh with my free hand, feel them make an indent into my skin. I hope it makes a bruise.

Chapter Three

France

12th August: One day before the arrest

Siobhan

I wake up early on our first morning in France, my mouth a little dry from the red wine with my sister and Callum on the terrace last night. Emma didn’t appear from the basement and so we left her to it in the end, stayed outside drinking under the stars until the early hours. I went to bed first, with the intention of having some time alone to think, plan out my next steps, but by the time Callum came up I must have been already unconscious, knocked out by the wine, because I didn’t hear him slide into bed next to me. Didn’t hear anything at all, in fact.

Beside me, Callum is asleep, the covers flung off him, his mouth very slightly open. He is so familiar to me now, after fifteen years of marriage, and another year of dating before that. Emma was born in the January of the year we married, out of wedlock, as Maria likes to tease. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t got pregnant, if we hadn’t rushed into the wedding, but thoughts like that are useless now. What’s done is done. Or is it? For a while now, I’ve been thinking of a way out, but it’s easier said than done.

I watch the rise and fall of Callum’s breath, the easy way he lies, both arms above his head. There’s something childlike about it, childlike and carefree. I sleep curled up, like a foetus on guard against the world. I’m a light sleeper, usually, but Callum sleeps like the dead. Sometimes he will fling out a limb, crush me with it accidentally. Occasionally, he will sleep in the spare room at home, if he’s been working late in his studio, and on those nights I spread myself out, starfish style, feel a splash of guilt at how much I enjoy it. I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to live like that all of the time. To be single like my sister.

Quietly, I ease back the covers and leave the room, glancing at my reflection in the tall gold mirror as I do so. My silky white nightie looks old and tired, my hair is full of split ends that dangle onto my shoulders. A mosquito bite stands out on my arm, red and itchy. Although I’ve only just got up, I already feel tired at the thought of the day. Another day of pretence.

I pick up my phone, standing on the dresser, but it is resolutely silent, the top right-hand corner devoid of any signal. We are disconnected, I think, and the thought makes me feel a wave of relief. It is strangely refreshing not having the usual cacophony of noise first thing – the news alerts, the updates from the uber-mothers, the concerned voicemails from the school headteacher about Emma’s worsening grades, her fallouts with the girls in her year. The bad behaviour that nobody can quite explain. Instead, there is silence, a blank screen. I glance at Callum’s phone, on charge over on his side of the bed. My fingers itch for a moment, the desire to unlock it and rummage through his electronic life again is strong, but really, what’s the point? I know everything there is to know, now. His passcode is Emma’s birthday – sweet, until you realise it’s all a sham.

Downstairs, there’s a pile of Maria’s new wares in the living room, unloaded from the car: a stand-alone lamp with a twisting, ornate base; a pile of rugs in rich, warm colours; a bookcase painted in a soft teal colour. I run my finger over it gently, wishing I had my sister’s eye. And her freedom.

In the kitchen, I select one of Maria’s blue ceramic mugs that she got from the pop-up market in the village and pour myself a much-needed filter coffee. I wanted to take Emma to see the market, try to use it as a bonding opportunity for the two of us, but my sister says it’s not there this week; it seems its opening hours are as random and sporadic as the little bakery.

Taking a long sip of coffee, I select the sharpest knife from the rack and begin to slice fruit for my daughter: dicing the apples, skinning the kiwis, pitting the cherries. I pile it all into a small blue and white bowl, drizzle fresh yoghurt around the outsides and dot fresh raspberries on top. It looks so pretty that I almost want to take a photo. I would, if I were one of those people. Emma says there are lots of them – food bloggers, Instagram influencers who only need to post a picture of their breakfast to get hundreds of thousands of likes. My daughter’s own social media channels are private, closed, especially to me. Believe me, I’ve looked.

Of course, Emma isn’t interested in my efforts. When I tap on her bedroom door before gently pushing it open, she pulls the white sheet over her head, but not before I catch a quick glimpse of her: the pale face already scowling, the low-level teenage anger that seems to radiate from her every limb these days. I stand still for a second or two in her doorway, watching her, but she doesn’t move. Silently, soundlessly, Callum appears behind me. His hands go to my waist.

‘Let her sleep,’ he says softly, and semi-reluctantly I back away, close the door. I feel the familiar tug of guilt that I always feel around my daughter, the worry that Callum does know better, that he and Emma share something that I, for some reason, do not. Does my husband know what’s right for our daughter? Am I failing so badly as a mother that it’s pushing their bond even closer?

My feet are bare on the tiles and I’m still clutching the bowl of beautiful fruit. Callum has a hold of me, and, not knowing what else to do, I smile at him as he bends down and kisses the tip of my nose. He used to kiss me on the mouth, always and without fail, but lately he has started to choose my nose instead, or my forehead, occasionally my hand. When did it begin, I often think to myself, did it begin around the same time as everything else? I look down at my hands, avoiding his gaze; my fingers are stained red from the raspberries. Little flecks that look like blood.

‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he says. ‘Is Maria up?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I say – the door to my sister’s room is resolutely shut. I smile to myself; Maria never did handle hangovers very well. When we were teenagers, she’d always drink more than me, encourage me to join in. I can still remember the sharp scent of vodka as she pushed it towards me in our bedroom, and the funny taste of it from the china cup. Mum never knew, I don’t think. Maria made sure of it. She washed the cups in the sink and put them back on the shelves in the morning, soap suds covering up the smell of spirits.

I watch now as Callum retreats away from me, back to our en suite. I go upstairs, open the huge sliding doors that lead out onto the terrace. It’s already hot; the sun is white in the sky. I know we were thinking of driving to Rouen today – Callum does like a plan, an itinerary – but I can feel the pull of the swimming pool already, am visualising myself stretched out on a sun lounger by the water, my husband and daughter twenty miles away wandering the streets of France.

It’s not that I don’t love my daughter. I do. More than anything. But bit by bit, I am losing her, and for all intents and purposes, my husband is already lost. Sometimes that hurts so much that I simply cannot bear it. Instead, I detach: I disengage from them both, retreat into the corner of my mind that still thinks of myself as an individual, rather than part of a three. It doesn’t always work.

Emma has become more and more withdrawn over the last eighteen months, her slide into adolescence much harder on me than I’d ever imagined it might be. I have wished so many times that her hormones would manifest themselves differently; that I could bandage up a wound, administer doses of medicine like I did when she was a little girl clamouring for Calpol. But of course I cannot.

A friend of mine once told me drunkenly that her own teenagers are exactly the same – hissing with an inexplicable rage one moment, all smiles the next, a seemingly impossible merry-go-round of emotions that reverberate around the family. We were sipping white wine in the kitchen of our house in Ipswich, the only two left after a gathering one Christmas. We used to be a lot more sociable, Callum and I. My friend – let’s call her Kate – had valiantly drunk the best part of two bottles by the time she began talking about her children (she has one of each – a son and a daughter, not far off Emma’s age now) and it was clear she’d wanted to open up to someone for a while.

‘Sometimes I just wish they’d disappear,’ she had said, gazing gloomily into her glass of Pinot, and I’d felt myself nodding, even though I didn’t really agree. I wouldn’t swap Emma for the world, in spite of all her moodiness.

‘God, I’m sorry,’ Kate said, almost immediately after she’d finished speaking, clapping one hand to her mouth, the gesture a little bit sloppy due to the wine. ‘That was a terrible thing to say. Please Siobhan, forget I said it.’ I watched as a look of panic came over her face. ‘You will, won’t you? You will just forget it? God, me and my big mouth.’ She hiccupped. ‘I’ve had way too much wine.’

It must be said that at this point I was not sober either, but I wasn’t as far gone as my friend, whose eyes were beginning to take on the blurry sheen of someone who might be about to cry.

‘Don’t worry about it, Kate, it’s forgotten,’ I said to her, the words coming slowly. I was wearing a long white cardigan, and I wrapped it around myself, feeling chilly despite the warmth from the fire in the living room and the twinkle of our Christmas tree lights. We’d gone all out that year in an attempt to cheer Emma up, ‘bring her out of herself’ as the school headteacher had helpfully suggested. My body felt strange beneath the cardigan, as though it belonged to someone else.

Anyway, it’s hard to think back to when Emma began to change. To when my bubbly little girl turned into something different. All parents say that, don’t they, that the morphing of child to adolescent is a truly bizarre experience, something you’re never prepared for despite how many times you’ve warned yourself it will happen.

She began to turn in on herself, spending more and more time alone in her bedroom. Whereas before she had been happy spending time with me after school, sitting atop the Aga with her legs dangling down, watching me in the kitchen, now she vanished, a blur of school uniform and long hair disappearing up the stairs. I used to stand at the bottom step, trying desperately to think of the magic words that would bring her back, make us close again, but somehow they never came.

‘It’s just hormones,’ Callum had said at first, shrugging, and for a second or two I hated him. Hated him for dismissing her like that. He and Emma have always got on very well – truth be told, there are times when I look at them both and feel jealous, though that’s not something I’d ever really want to admit to anyone else. But despite their closeness, Callum has never really tackled the problem, at least not head on. He buried his head in the sand and it’s stayed there ever since. When he did try to talk to her about it, he became too brusque, almost aggressive. I suppose a stroppy daughter didn’t really fit into his persona – his TV exec personality, his almost local celebrity status. In spite of how much he loved her, she was becoming a blot on his copybook. But it wasn’t as though I was much better. I worried about her, but I was frustrated, too. I wanted her to snap out of it, to grow up a bit. Look, I’m just being honest. I never pretended to be perfect. Despite what people might think.

Callum comes outside, his hair wet from the shower, a white towel wrapped around his waist. Our villa is overlooked slightly by the one above us on the hill, but Callum has never been particularly bothered about privacy. When I first met him, he was quite the exhibitionist, forever taking risks and encouraging me to loosen my inhibitions a bit – wanting public displays of affection, snatched encounters outdoors on our dates. I’m not sure he ever really got what he wanted in that respect – not from me, anyway. It was never really my thing.

‘Still up for going to Rouen today with Maria?’ he asks me. ‘We can probably drag Ems along too, don’t you think?’

He’s grinning at me in that careless way he has, running a hand through the dark spikes of his hair. Whatever odd mood that had gripped him on the plane over here seems to have gone now, faded away in the heat and the wine and the luxuriousness of the swimming pool. Callum is a man who is used to getting what he wants and despite everything, he still has that ability to charm me, to grin like a Cheshire cat and make those old giddy feelings arise in my stomach.

‘Mmm,’ I say, about to capitulate, and then suddenly I look at him and think better of it. ‘You know what, actually, Callum, I was thinking I might stay here for the day, by the pool,’ I say. ‘Might get a bit of work done, if I can get the internet working.’ I pause. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

He groans, but it’s only a mock-groan, I can tell. He doesn’t really mind if I don’t come, and I can already see his mind skipping ahead to what this means – a possible father-daughter day for him and Emma. Just Daddy and Ems. No bad cop today.

‘We’re on holiday, Siobhan,’ he says. ‘Plus, you said you’d always wanted to visit Rouen.’ He pauses. ‘You don’t need to be working – I work! You need a break. That’s why we came here.’

Is it, I ask myself silently, but outwardly I smile, though I’m bristling inside at his casual dismissal of my need to work. ‘I know, I’m sorry. But if I can power through some bits today then it’ll free me up for the rest of the time here. I promise.’ I’m improvising now.

He relents, as I knew he would, and I settle myself down by the pool, my laptop on my knee, listening as Emma finally rouses herself and the pair of them set about getting ready to go to Rouen. At one point, Emma comes out to the patio, stopping when she sees me on the sun lounger.

‘Are you not coming?’

I gesture at my laptop with a rueful sigh.

‘Work. I’m sorry, darling. But you’ll have fun with Dad.’

‘Hmm.’ She seems to accept it relatively easily (I could almost be hurt by her lack of protestation) and I watch as she lifts the hem of her white summer dress, sprays her legs with mozzie spray.

‘Maria?’ Callum is calling for my sister, the sound of his voice bouncing over to where I lie at the pool. It’s very hot – I should get a hat. ‘Maria? Where are you?’

She emerges from a side door, sunglasses over her eyes and a shopping bag in her hand, blue plastic straining at her wrist.

‘Have you been out?’ I ask, confused, and she nods.

‘Popped to the patisserie, managed to catch it open for once.’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘we thought you were still in bed.’

She grins at me. ‘I handle my hangovers a little better than I used to, sis. Been up and about for hours. Sorry about the stuff in the living room, had to unload the car. Croissant?’

‘Emma and Callum are hoping to go to Rouen,’ I say. She looks at me by the pool, the two of them ready to go, and seems to assess the situation at a single glance.

‘I think I’ll stay here with Siobhan, actually,’ she tells Callum, the car keys glinting in her hand. ‘Here, take these. You’re insured on mine, aren’t you? You’ll manage. Just go slow on the bends. We’ll save you a croissant for when you get back.’ She’s tossed the keys across the patio to him before he can argue; I watch as he catches them deftly. He’s always been sure of himself, has my husband, but as he and Emma turn to go, I catch sight of something unreadable on his face. It is there for a second, and then it disappears.

Five minutes later, they are gone. I wait until the sound of Maria’s car stuttering up the hill has faded into the distance, then close my laptop, which I never had any intention of using. I don’t really have much work to do; my role at a pharmaceutical company has gradually lessened over the years as Callum’s star has continued to rise. I took a step back from it when Emma was born, wanting to prioritise my family, prioritise my husband. I’ve spent sixteen years of my life doing just that, which is why, I suppose, the thought of it all crumbling now is a little too much for me to bear. After the sacrifices I’ve made, the things I have endured.