Don’t Turn Around
4.5/5
()
About this ebook
Now he’s coming for you
Ten years ago, Jen’s cousin Meg killed herself after failing to escape an abusive relationship.
Now, Meg’s ex is back and Jen’s domestic abuse helpline has started getting frightening calls from a girl who knows things about Meg – details that only the dead girl or the man who hurt her could have known…
As Jen starts to uncover the past, someone is determined to stop her. Can she save this young woman from Meg’s fate? Or is history about to repeat itself?
Amanda Brooke
Amanda Brooke is an internationally bestselling author. Her debut novel, Yesterday’s Sun, was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick and since then she has written eleven further books which regularly make the bestseller charts. Amanda lives in Merseyside with a cat called Spider, a dog called Mouse, and a laptop within easy reach.
Read more from Amanda Brooke
Yesterday's Sun: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Good Liar Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Child’s Secret Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to Don’t Turn Around
Related ebooks
The Serial Killer's Girl: A gripping, edge-of-your-seat psychological thriller from L. H. Stacey Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Victim: A shocking, gripping thriller from John Nicholl Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHow You See Me Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Fake Date: A completely gripping, page-turning psychological thriller from L.H. Stacey Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Last Wife: The completely addictive psychological thriller from the bestselling author of Local Girl Missing, J.A. Baker Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Bride: A completely addictive, gripping psychological thriller from John Nicholl Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5My Sister's Secret: The unforgettable psychological thriller from Diane Saxon, author of My Little Brother. Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Twins: A brand new totally gripping psychological thriller full of twists Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBehind Her Smile Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Ex-Wife: A completely addictive, page-turning psychological thriller from Sally Rigby and Amanda Ashby Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Toxic Friend: A brilliant psychological thriller from J.A. Baker Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRight Behind You: A completely gripping, unforgettable psychological thriller from Diana Wilkinson Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOut of Her Mind: A deliciously dark psychological thriller Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Stepson: A completely addictive psychological thriller from Diane Saxon Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Secondhand Life: An unpredictable serial killer thriller Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Save Her: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Full of Twists Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Retreat: A page-turning psychological thriller from J.A. Baker Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Other Widow: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Your Only Friend: A Must-Read Psychological Thriller Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Cuckoo Sister: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller from Alison Stockham Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Fortune Teller: A tense, gripping psychological thriller from Natasha Boydell for 2024 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHer Last Summer: the BRAND NEW completely gripping psychological thriller from Nina Manning for 2024 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Girl in the Photo Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsToo Close: A twisted psychological thriller that's not for the faint-hearted! Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Perfect Daughter Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Two Wrongs Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Simple Lie: A Heart Stopping Psychological Thriller Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Thrillers For You
The Perfect Marriage: A Completely Gripping Psychological Suspense Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Housemaid Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Fairy Tale Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Animal Farm Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Eyes of the Dragon Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pretty Girls: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Sympathizer: A Novel (Pulitzer Prize for Fiction) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Institute: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Only Good Indians Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I'm Thinking of Ending Things: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Leave the World Behind: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Pet Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Rock Paper Scissors: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paris Apartment: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sometimes I Lie: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Family Upstairs: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Razorblade Tears: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Troop Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Hidden Pictures: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5You: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Lying Game: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Maidens: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A Flicker in the Dark: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Girl Who Was Taken: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Needful Things Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Holly Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5We Have Always Lived in the Castle Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Related categories
Reviews for Don’t Turn Around
3 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Don’t Turn Around - Amanda Brooke
AMANDA BROOKE
Don’t Turn Around
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Amanda Valentine 2019
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Chris Reeve / Trevillion Images (front, spine); © Shutterstock.com (back)
Amanda Valentine 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: 9780008219185
Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008219192
Version: 2018-10-23
Dedication
For my children, Jessica and Nathan
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Discover Amanda’s Other Novels!
Look Out for Amanda’s Two Short Stories:
About the Author
Also by Amanda Brooke
About the Publisher
Prologue
The Confession
The rhythmic slap of my ballet shoes against the linoleum-covered steps echoes down the stairwell. As my pace slows, my head droops and my gaze falls onto the worn and familiar treads that lead to the seventh floor and home. I know each and every scuff mark, every chip of paint, and even the crumpled tissues and sweet wrappers discarded by my thoughtless neighbours are familiar to me. Unlike my apartment block’s gleaming city-centre exterior, its spine has an air of abandonment. The stairwell is rarely used and less frequently cleaned, and there have been times when I’ve taken it upon myself to return with rubber gloves and a bin bag, but no more. Believe me, I’ve tried, but nothing I do ever makes a difference.
My legs are trembling by the time I reach my floor and I take a moment to catch my breath. Drawn to the window with its view of the Liverpool waterfront, I follow the line of docks until they’re rudely interrupted by the modern edifice of a thirteen-storey office block that sits awkwardly between Canning Dock and the Pier Head. This is Mann Island, and although it hasn’t been an island for centuries, the place where I work certainly looks stranded next to the iconic outlines of the Port of Liverpool, Cunard and Liver Buildings. The Three Graces had been basking in the afterglow of a crisp autumn day when I’d set off on the short trek home along the Strand, but the world has darkened since, and the Graces have been reduced to silhouettes, pockmarked with yellow, fluorescent lights. As I step back from the window, my eyes refocus and I catch my reflection.
The apparition floating beyond the sheet of glass is weighed down by the heavy houndstooth woollen jacket hanging off her shoulders. Her round face is framed by straggly mouse-brown hair and a severe fringe that’s become frayed from her exertions. Her complexion is pale against the starless night and there’s no spark in her eyes. The fight has left her.
I don’t recognise this woman captured by the failing light, or perhaps I do. There’s something about her that reminds me of Meg. My cousin’s hair was a similar shade although you would describe hers as golden, and she never hid behind a fringe. Meg was bold, and yet the hopelessness in the face that stares back at me immediately brings her to mind.
I retreat to the exit door only to stop when I hear a noise. The soft squeak of a rubber sole on linoleum came from the floor above, or I think it did. The world falls silent again and I’m about to dismiss the crawling sensation that I’m being watched when—
‘Hello, Jen.’
Instinctively, I grab the safety bar but I don’t open the door because I’ve already recognised the deep voice that sent a jolt of terror down my spine. The fact that he’s here shouldn’t surprise me, and I know it won’t matter if I run away, or stand and fight. He’s already won.
I turn my head slowly but he stops me.
‘Don’t turn around.’
Keeping my head to the side, I stare at the window with its mirror image of the landing behind me. No figure appears from the shadows, no hand reaches out to wrap around my neck.
‘What is this? Don’t you have the guts to face me?’ I ask, my voice surprisingly calm.
There’s a pause and when he replies, he sounds closer. ‘If I thought it was going to be easy, we would have had this conversation ten years ago.’
‘This conversation?’ I ask. ‘If it’s a confession you’re planning, I’m not the one you should be talking to. It’s Meg’s parents who deserve answers.’
‘Ruth and Geoff don’t need to hear what I have to say.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve been protecting them all these years.’
‘Not only them.’
My laugh catches in my dry throat. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve been protecting me too.’
‘If Meg had wanted you to know everything, she’d have told you everything.’
‘Maybe she tried,’ I reply as I picture a torn scrap of yellow lined paper. Meg’s suicide note, or at least a remnant of it.
‘No, she didn’t,’ he says with finality. ‘Christ, Jen, didn’t you know her at all?’
‘She was my best friend. Of course I knew her!’ I tell him, raising my voice to camouflage the doubt.
‘Not like I did,’ he says in a whisper.
A door swings open three flights down and shrieks of laughter ricochet off the walls as a group of raucous, and possibly drunken friends race to the ground floor. Their giddiness reminds me of times lost, but I can’t trust my memories. How many of Meg’s smiles were a disguise for unfathomable pain?
When another door slams shut and stillness returns, I hear the whisper of stealthy footfalls. I scan the reflection of the empty landing and glimpse movement on the small section of the stairs that are visible to me. I spy a pair of black boots and legs clad in dark jeans. I twist my body towards him.
‘I said, don’t turn around.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t …’ He curses under his breath. ‘I won’t do this if you’re looking at me.’
1
Jen
Two months earlier …
As I watch the TV crew setting up the interview, I stand as close as I dare to the floor-to-ceiling windows to give myself the best view across the office. The intensity of the summer sun reflecting off the white Portland stone of the neighbouring Port of Liverpool Building forces me to shield my eyes as I follow what the camera sees.
A banner for the Megan McCoy Foundation, set up by Ruth and Geoff set up in their daughter’s name three years after her death has been strategically placed to obscure the logo of McCoy and Pace Architects. It looks a little worn but better than it did this morning when I unearthed it from the bottom of the stationery cupboard. I used a Sharpie to cover up the scratches and I’m hoping the camera won’t pick up where I went outside the lines on the telephone number for the Lean On Me helpline. There’s half a roll of duct tape holding it all together on the back, but if the relaunch goes as well as we’re hoping, I can order new banners.
The cameraman points his lens over the reporter’s left shoulder while she asks, ‘Perhaps you could start by telling us a little about Megan.’ The camera zooms in on the middle-aged woman sitting at one of the two helpline pods that represent the sum total of the foundation’s resources.
Ruth’s long, slender body is tense but I see the lines creasing her brow soften as she begins to build a picture of her daughter in her mind. ‘She was my youngest – I have a son, Sean, who’s two years older – but Megan was the baby of the family. I know we spoiled her but that didn’t spoil her, if you know what I mean. She was no trouble, always did as she was told and she couldn’t have been more thoughtful and caring. Not a day went by without her doing something that was sweet, or funny, or just made my heart clench with love.’ Ruth’s smile broadens as she adds flesh to her daughter’s memory.
The spider’s web of wrinkles around her eyes that mark the ten years Ruth has lived with her heartache cut a little deeper and her smile falters. Her short, dark brown hair emphasises her paling complexion.
‘What went wrong?’ asks the reporter.
Ruth’s eyes flick towards me. ‘She fell in with the wrong crowd.’
I know my aunt better than I know my own mother. The look she gives me is not one of reproach. I’m no more responsible for Meg being led astray than she, but we carry our own guilt. I shift uncomfortably, aware of the wall of glass next to me that seems suddenly fragile.
‘Megan had been doing extremely well at school. Eleven A star GCSEs,’ Ruth continues. ‘Sean had gone off to university and we expected her to follow suit, but when she went into sixth form, everything changed. In those last two years, she went from being able to talk to us about anything, to not wanting to be in the same room as me or her father. I thought our relationship with our daughter was unbreakable but it was as if someone had hacked into her mind and completely rewired it. Geoff and I tried everything to get her back on track, from cajoling, to bribery, to threats, but nothing worked. As a last resort, we grounded her, something we’d never had to do before, but when she wasn’t barricading herself in her room, she would sneak out as soon as our backs were turned. We could see what was happening and were helpless to stop it.’
Ruth pulls at her polished fingernails and I find myself looking through her and into the past. I spent more time with Meg than I did my own sisters and of all the memories I have, the one that rises quickest to the surface is our last trip to school to pick up our A Level results. I have a vivid picture of standing with a cluster of friends as we tore open our envelopes. I had the grades I needed for my first choice uni, but my joy was short-lived as I became aware of other people’s reactions, and Meg’s in particular. She was deathly pale but her cheeks were pinched crimson as she watched Lewis Rimmer punch the air. She screwed up her envelope and flung it at his smug face.
‘What did I do?’ he asked as she stormed off.
It’s a question I still ask myself.
I wonder if Ruth is thinking of him too as she curls her fingers into fists. ‘Meg was devastated when she failed her exams. Uni had been her escape route, I think. It would have given her the chance to distance herself from the bad influences in her life.’
‘Was there substance abuse?’
‘No, but there was abuse,’ Ruth says carefully.
Shock forces me back a step and my shoulder thumps against the window before I can right myself. What is Ruth doing?
‘When Meg died,’ Ruth continues, her gaze remaining fixed on the reporter, ‘there was evidence of self-harm and a previous attempt to take her life that we knew nothing about. She hurt herself and I believe that was because someone was hurting her more, emotionally if not physically. Through my years on the Lean On Me helpline, I’ve learnt that an abuser’s greatest weapon can be the mind of his victim.’
A frown forms as the reporter checks her notes. She’s done her research and knows there was no mention of abuse in the coroner’s verdict. The foundation’s website simply states that Meg took her own life less than two weeks after failing her exams and that it was a senseless loss. That’s always been the official line and the abuse that we as a family know Meg endured has gone unrecorded and unpunished. Up until today, Ruth has kept to a carefully edited version of her daughter’s death to avoid litigation, and I don’t understand why she’s chosen now to speak up. Or perhaps I do.
Despite our best efforts, there has been little interest from the media in our cause. Press releases have gone unread and the handful of press interviews we’ve been able to secure have resulted in minimal column inches. This pre-recorded interview is our last-ditch attempt to draw in new callers and keep the helpline open, but there’s no guarantee that it will air this evening. It’s been a slow news week after the August bank holiday weekend but if something more newsworthy comes along, our story will be shelved. Ruth wants to make sure that doesn’t happen, and she certainly has the reporter transfixed.
‘It’s no coincidence that one of the foundation’s principal aims is to give young people the tools to recognise when they’re in toxic relationships,’ she continues. ‘Tools that could have saved Meg’s life.’
The reporter leans in closer to ask the question Ruth shouldn’t answer. ‘And who was it that hurt your daughter, Mrs McCoy?’
My fingers dig into the flesh of my arms – surely she won’t do it. Naming the man we all loathe might grab the headlines, but a lawsuit would follow and my next press release won’t be to promote the helpline, it’ll be to announce its closure.
‘There was a boyfriend,’ Ruth explains, skirting dangerously close to the truth. ‘I’m sure part of the attraction for Meg was that she knew we wouldn’t approve, but I’d been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Geoff was less accommodating and, as it turned out, his instincts were better than mine. To understand what this man took from us, you would need to have known the person Meg was before she met him. When she was at her best, my daughter could light up a room. Pick a memory, any memory, and there was Meg right at the centre of it all, bright and beautiful.’ Ruth’s eyes light up, only to dim when she adds, ‘But in the space of two short years, he took every last spark of life she had and stamped it out. It was as if my sweet girl had been hollowed out. I lost her long before the day she died.’
I close my eyes, feeling a tension headache creeping up my temples. Even without a name, there are plenty of viewers who will know exactly who Ruth is talking about. I have to hope that Lewis won’t be one of them.
‘And that was three days before her eighteenth birthday,’ the reporter adds.
‘Ten years ago this coming Thursday.’
‘And the note Megan left. Did it mention anything about what she had been through?’ the reporter asks as she refers back to her notes.
‘The scrap of a note we were left with explained nothing,’ Ruth replies, choosing her words carefully.
When she looks at me, I shake my head urgently. The police investigation had found no evidence that someone else had been there when Meg hung herself, or that the note she had left had been tampered with, despite never finding the missing half to the page taken from her notepad. No matter what we might think privately, our suspicions can’t be made public. Acid burns in my stomach as I watch Ruth return her gaze to the camera, her eyes blazing with fury.
‘Meg told us she wanted her shame to be buried with her, but no child should be buried in shame. She was seventeen years old. If there’s any shame, it’s mine. I didn’t see what was in front of me, and I can never change that.’
‘You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ the reporter tells her.
‘Tell that to the people who go to extraordinary lengths to avoid mentioning how I lost my daughter,’ Ruth hits back. Her voice softens when she adds, ‘But if we don’t talk about suicide and the pain it causes families like mine, how can we open up the conversation and reach out to those struggling with suicidal thoughts? Meg thought she was sparing us. I wish I could have told her that whatever she was going through, or whatever she thought she was putting us through, it wouldn’t last. It’s the grief that goes on forever. I didn’t simply lose her that day, I lost an entire future. I’ve recently become a grandmother but I’ll never see the children Meg might have had, or celebrate countless other milestones in her life.’
‘You’ve created a wonderful legacy in her memory. She would be very proud of you,’ the reporter says gently.
‘As I am of her. The Megan McCoy Foundation wouldn’t exist without her. Our daughter thought she had run out of options and our job is to make sure that young women, and men too, realise there are always options. I’ll never know what Meg would have made of her life if things had been different, but thanks to the Lean On Me helpline, I know quite a few young people who were on a similar path and are now enjoying lives they never thought possible. It’s a lovely feeling when they get back in touch to share good news.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me about some of the people you’ve helped.’
‘I didn’t do it alone. It’s been a group effort,’ Ruth says as she catches my eye. There’s a hint of a smile. She’s back on script.
Pressing my chin to my chest as Ruth recounts the foundation’s successes, I allow the relief flooding my chest to ease away my tension.
I’m not sure Ruth realises it, but the first person she saved was me. Meg’s death didn’t only rewrite her parents’ future, it rewrote mine too. I was always the shy one, hiding behind Meg’s armour of overconfidence. She could jump from a stage and never doubt that someone would catch her, while to this day I refuse to step into a lift because I’m convinced a cable will snap. Unlike Meg, I’ve never put my fears to the test but then I don’t need to. Bad things do happen – Meg proved that.
It would have been nice if my response to my cousin’s premature death had been to grab every opportunity that life had to offer, but I didn’t see the point. Not all leaps of faith ended well, so why take the risk? Much to my mother’s chagrin, I turned down my place at university and denied her a full complement of four daughters with degrees, husbands and successful careers. In her eyes, I’ve failed on all counts.
I spent the years I should have been at uni flitting from one casual job to another until Ruth asked for my help setting up the foundation. She had commandeered a corner of the new offices of McCoy and Pace Architects and she wanted my help to launch the Lean On Me helpline. The role was voluntary, the charity couldn’t afford paid staff or much else for that matter, but Ruth found a way around that by employing me as an admin assistant and allowing me to split my time between the firm and the foundation.
I was reluctant at first, and Mum wasn’t too pleased that I was being offered such a lowly position in her brother’s firm, but I wasn’t looking for favours from Auntie Ruth and Uncle Geoff. They became simply Ruth and Geoff as we adjusted to our new roles in each other’s lives, and although certain aspects of the work can be a challenge, I’ve been surprised by how much satisfaction I’ve gained from helping others through the charity. I’m less keen on my admin duties but, if the relaunch of the helpline is a success, if we secure more funding and reach out to more people, then I plan to start training to be a counsellor. It’s by no means guaranteed and I share Ruth’s desperation, but I’d like to believe that Meg is steering me towards a career I never knew I wanted. This relaunch has to work.
When I lift my head, Ruth is beaming a smile at the reporter. She’s in full flow, talking about the helpline. It might not be on the grand scale of some of the national charities we work with like the Samaritans, Women’s Aid and Refuge who can offer twenty-four-hour support but, for three evenings a week, we are there for young people who often have nothing more than a growing sense of unease about a relationship and want to talk it through. A listening ear might not sound like much, but we’ve had enough successes to make the last seven years worthwhile, and long may it continue.
A shadow appears in my periphery and I turn to find Geoff with his shoulder pressed against the window.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ I whisper, my pulse racing as I imagine a creak as the window frame loosens, followed by the sound of glass and bone shattering on the concourse below.
Geoff straightens up. ‘Sorry.’
Like Ruth, my uncle’s tailored appearance gives no hint of the trauma he’s suffered. He was the one who found Meg in the garage but if the shadow of that memory persists, it’s hidden behind the twinkle in his grey eyes. The only marked difference I’ve noticed in the past decade is a receding hairline and the slight paunch he carries as a result of too many whiskeys.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks, tipping his head towards Ruth.
I attempt a smile but my eyes give something away.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Ruth might have suggested Meg was being abused,’ I say with a wince. ‘She didn’t mention him by name but she said enough for anyone who knew Meg to join the dots.’
‘Including Lewis,’ Geoff replies, his mouth twisting into a snarl. ‘I wish we could name that bastard and prick his conscience, but I doubt he has one. He’s not the one who suffers when old wounds are reopened.’
I want to give my uncle a hug but that would simply acknowledge the pain he tries so hard to hide. ‘It’ll be worth it if just one person sees the interview and reaches out,’ I tell him.
‘It’s a lot of effort to go to for one person, Jennifer,’ he warns.
Despite being a trustee of the foundation, Geoff has always taken a pragmatic view of our work. He was the first to challenge the effectiveness of the helpline in light of the sharp decline in callers, and his initial suggestion was to wind things up as a precursor to retirement, which he’s mentioned an awful lot since turning sixty. The relaunch isn’t only about convincing new clients to believe in us.
‘We’ll get plenty of new callers after this,’ I promise, with enough conviction in my voice to make the cameraman on the other side of the office raise an eyebrow. I mouth an apology and for the remainder of the interview remain tight-lipped. It’s not as if there’s anything else I can say to Geoff that Ruth hasn’t already tried. Results are what we need and I pray that Ruth’s interview will draw the right kind of attention.
2
Jen
‘Did you see the interview?’ I ask Mum as I pour a layer of béchamel sauce over lasagne sheets.
‘Ruth didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were sunken and I bet her fingers have been chewed to the quick beneath those false nails.’
I pull a face, which fortunately Mum can’t see because she’s on speakerphone. ‘Ruth’s fine,’ I say. ‘If she looks tired, it’s because we’ve been working so hard on the relaunch. I thought she came across really well, and we got the message across that we needed.’
‘It’s a good cause, we all know that, but was it wise to name Lewis?’
‘She didn’t name him.’
‘As good as,’ Mum says, filling my heart with dread. If she thinks that, so will everyone else.
In the hours since the interview I’ve tried to remain positive but there’s no running away from the fact that Ruth has taken a huge risk. She’s made the first strike, and if I know anything about Lewis, it’s that he will hit back.
‘I can understand why she’s so determined to blame him,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s got to be better than facing the truth.’
‘Oh, and what exactly is the truth?’
I hear her sigh. ‘She blames herself, like any mother would. And I know she’d love to go back and do things differently but that’s never going to happen, is it?’
‘And what would you do differently?’ I ask through gritted teeth. If my mother wants to start apportioning blame, a chat about the role she played is long overdue.
‘I loved Meg, you know I did,’ she says firmly, ‘but it’s time to stop dwelling in the past. That video montage they showed – poor Meg, all smiles and full of life – it broke my heart. Goodness knows what it did to Ruth and Geoff.’
It broke my heart too, I want to tell her. But I shouldn’t have to. ‘Ruth wanted to share it, Mum,’ I continue. ‘It was her idea. The helpline wouldn’t exist without Meg and that’s how she keeps her memory alive.’
‘That, and having you around,’ Mum mutters, edging closer to the subject neither of us dare raise.
I’m the youngest of Mum’s brood and it’s fair to say that the novelty had worn off when she got to daughter number four. I gravitated to Meg because we were the same age and, well, because she was Meg. It wasn’t because my aunt and uncle had the posh house and the spare room I could have to myself whenever I stayed over, although Mum always insisted that was the draw. I loved being somewhere where I wasn’t lost in the melee of family life, and there were times when I wished Ruth had been my mum. Occasionally, I still do.
As I drop globs of bolognese sauce into the oven dish, it splatters across my white cotton shirt. I want to swear but I don’t. ‘Ruth and I share a passion for what we do,’ I explain. ‘Look at what we’ve achieved, Mum. There’s a lot we can be proud of.’
‘Of course there is,’ Mum says in a placating tone that riles me. ‘Your father and I are proud of you, as we are of all our daughters.’
‘Where is Dad?’ I ask, to steer her away from what I know is coming next. My sisters are her favourite topic of conversation.
‘He’s still watching the news. He says hi.’
I doubt Dad has peeled his eyes from the TV screen. Having brought up four daughters in a compact terraced house, he learnt long ago to tune out of the conversations going on around him.
‘Have you heard Hayley’s news?’ Mum continues. ‘She’s only been back from maternity leave two months and they’ve promoted her already.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
Mum hears the sharpness of my reply. ‘You’ll get there too, Jennifer. You have as much potential as your sisters and you’re still young-ish.’ There’s a telling pause before she adds, ‘Although I was looking at how long it takes to become a certified counsellor. You really should start training sooner rather than later.’
I regret ever mentioning my musings to Mum, but I’d been in the middle of planning the relaunch and Ruth had me all enthused about how the foundation might actually expand its services beyond the helpline, despite Geoff’s calls for caution. But Mum’s right. It will take years to become qualified and there would be sacrifices I’d have to make along the way.
I glance across the open plan apartment, with its polished timber floor and gleaming surfaces. There are no sticky finger marks on the glass dining table, no Lego bricks gathering dust beneath the pale grey sofa, and the corner desk has no teetering tower of files brought home from a demanding job. I’m unlike any of my sisters.
It’s as if Mum is looking over my shoulder when she adds, ‘And it’s not the only thing you need to start planning.’
I don’t know why I bothered answering the phone when I saw Mum’s name appear. On a day when I’m desperate for a hug, my mother puts me in a stranglehold. Can’t she see that I’m happy as I am?
‘It’s ten years since – you know,’ Mum continues. ‘It’s time to move on and start building a life for yourself.’
As Mum’s voice drones on from the speakerphone, I carry the lasagne to the oven. The dish makes a clatter as I drop it onto a baking shelf and I don’t hear the front door opening. When I straighten up, Charlie catches me pulling faces at the phone.
‘You’re twenty-eight years old, Jennifer,’ Mum continues, having given up pretending I’m still young-ish. ‘You need to think about settling down properly, and Charlie’s business is doing well. Isn’t it time he popped the question?’
Charlie’s eyebrows lift as his mouth pulls into a smirk. Mum would have a fit if she knew that in almost eight years of living together, Charlie has asked me to marry him a total of five times and my answer has always been the same – what we have works.
‘I’m waiting for Jen to ask me, Eve,’ Charlie calls out.
There’s a long pause and I can’t tell if Mum has been struck dumb because she’s realised Charlie was listening, or she’s simply horrified at the idea that one of her daughters should have to do the asking.
‘Don’t worry about us, Mum,’ I say to break the silence. ‘We’re happy enough as we are. Shouldn’t that be what matters?’
‘I’m only looking out for you— for both of you,’ she adds. ‘You don’t have to settle for happy enough. That’s all I’m saying.’
This time when I pull a face, Charlie does too and we have to stifle our giggles as we say our goodbyes to Mum and I cut the call.
‘That’s never all Mum was saying,’ I mutter.
‘It’s your fault for not fitting into her standardised daughter mould.’
‘And she won’t stop until she’s hammered me into place.’
‘I like a woman who knows her own mind,’ Charlie says before adding quickly, ‘You do know I’m talking about you, right? Not your mum?’
‘I know,’ I reply although I’m not sure I do know my own mind. My refusal to conform could be because Meg passed on her rebellious streak to me as a parting gift, but I suspect what she actually left me with was fear – fear of opening new doors when the one behind was torn off its hinges and will never close.