Now, sitting in my little corner of paradise, I watch the man playing with his children, running in and out of the surf even though it’s too chilly for that. I smile as the youngest, a girl, kicks up a spray that soaks his trouser legs and he laughs, his curly blond hair blowing wildly in the breeze. Thanks to the nanny who looks after his children – a round, rosy-cheeked woman who spends a lot of time discussing her employer in the local coffee shop – I know that his name is Patrick, and his wife died five years ago, when the youngest child was barely a few weeks old. He runs his own business, and is very successful at it, winning awards. He likes fishing, hiking, good ale and on top of all that, he is practical, with hands the size of shovels. I also know from the nanny that he is lonely, that he longs for a partner to share the vast amounts of money he has made. For someone to be a proper mother to his children.
I get to my feet as they start to walk away from me, Patrick engaged with the older of the two children, trying to untangle a snag in the line of the kite they’re trying to fly. Following their footprints in the sand, I see the girl take a tumble as she runs through the surf, trying to get to her feet before the waves wash over her legs and I see my chance.
‘Oopsadaisy.’ I slide my hands under her arms and lift her to her feet with a smile.
‘That’s my name,’ she shrieks in delight, ‘Daddy, Daddy…’
Patrick turns and I am relieved to see he is as good-looking as I had hoped. Daisy is brushing the sand from her bottom, telling him how I saved her from being washed away, enjoying the attention as she ramps up the tension in her story, to punish him for not watching her.
‘Thanks,’ Patrick says, as Daisy finally takes a breath, ‘I think she’s making it sound a little more dramatic than it probably was.’ He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh and I feel that familiar tingle that tells me I was right.
‘That’s five-year-olds for you,’ I smile back, aware of his gaze as it travels over my face, down my neck to the slight hint of cleavage that peeps from my shirt. ‘Hi, I’m Emma.’ And I hold my hand out for him to shake, and it starts all over again.
Acknowledgements
As always it took an entire army to get this book from first draft to the finished article. Thank you to Lisa Moylett, Zoe Apostolides and Elena Langtry at CMM for all your support and guidance. I am so lucky to have such strong, amazing women behind me.
Thank you to my editor, Kate Mills, who always knows the right thing to say, and always encourages me to go that little bit darker. Thanks also to Vikki Moynes and Becky Heeley for all your hard work, and to the incredible Lisa Milton.
Caroline Brownsell, I am so eternally grateful that you let me kill you on paper … sorry it was a bit more horrific than I originally planned. Cocktails on me to make up for it. And thank you to Rob, for loaning me his tradition of collecting coal on the beaches of Norfolk.
Thank you to all the bloggers, reviewers and readers – I can’t even tell you how grateful I am for all the support I have received from the reading community. I am still pinching myself that people pay to read and enjoy my work. You are all wonderful.
Finally, thanks to Nick, George, Missy and Mo for everything. Sorry I am sometimes a bit rubbish at cooking dinner/cleaning the house/remembering appointments. I promise you it’ll be worth it in the end…
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Prologue
The fire crackles as the flames leap into the frigid November air, sending out showers of sparks. The wooden pallets that have been piled high by volunteering parents, eagerly giving up their Saturday afternoon, crumple and sag as they burn. The guy – the star of this cold, clear Bonfire Night – is long gone now, his newspaper-stuffed belly and papier mâché head only lasting a matter of seconds, the crowd cheering as his features catch alight, feeding the frenzy of the flames.
My breath steams out in front of me, thick plumes of white that match the smoke that rises from the bonfire, but I am not cold, my hands are warm and my cheeks flushed pink. The crowd of parents, teachers and children, five or six deep in some places, that gathers in the muddy field behind the school are transfixed as the first of the fireworks shoots into the sky, before sending a spectacular display of colours raining down through the night air. I watch as she keeps her gaze fixed onto the display, the heat of the bonfire casting an orange glow across her features, her hat pushed back on her head, so her view isn’t obstructed. For a moment I feel a tiny twinge of guilt – after all, none of this is really her fault – before I remember why I’m doing this, and I bat it away impatiently.
All I need to do now, is wait. Wait for the realisation to dawn on her face, for the fear to grip her heart and make her stomach flip over as she realises what has happened. For her to realise that Laurel is gone.
Chapter 1
‘Here.’ Fran thrusts a polystyrene cup of mulled wine into my hand, fragrant steam curling into the cold November air. I don’t drink – not even cheap mulled wine with the alcohol boiled out of it – something I’ve told her repeatedly for
