The best thing is . . . I didn’t even have to ask. All I had to do was leave the Elevit lying around and the rest was history. Fern would do it; I had no doubts about that. She always did what I wanted. Of course she did, I’d spent a lifetime making her reliant on me. Planting the idea that she couldn’t be relied on – telling her she forgot to pick up milk or left the oven on. Telling her she was supposed to feed Alfie. That one had really got into her head. The result was that she did everything I asked, single-mindedly and perfectly. It was what made her such a great sister. And she didn’t let me down; it only took a ten-day staycation just outside of Melbourne (a.k.a. London) to get the job done.
Admittedly, I’d panicked when I thought the father of my future child was homeless, but I hadn’t given my sister enough credit. Trust Fern to find the only homeless multimillionaire! The baby would be smart, most likely. And one day, if I allowed her to track down her real dad, he’d owe us child support in the millions! I had it all worked out. It was what made it so painful when Fern decided to turn on me. I don’t know why I was so surprised. One by one, everyone seemed to turn on me. Dad. Mum. Owen. Why not Fern too?
The night before she died, I took my journal to Mum, to show her what would happen if she decided to tell Fern not to give me her baby. It was the first time I’d seen her in ten years. Ten years! It had started out well. Mum had seemed overwhelmed to see me. Her eyes had filled with tears and she’d actually gasped. That had been nice.
This is your chance, I’d thought. Make up for lost time, Mum. Show me that your brain injury knocked some sense into you.
I would have forgiven her. I would have let bygones be bygones.
But you know what she said?
‘Don’t take Fern’s baby.’
Ten years. That’s what she said.
Can anyone blame me for what I did?
She didn’t fight me. Why would she? The last time I’d tried to kill her, she’d only ended up with a brain injury. We both knew I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
I sit back in my chair and read over the journal entry I have just written. This is what they want, obviously. Everyone. The police. Fern and Wally. My prison psychologist. Documented proof that I am to blame for everything. Good luck with that.
I rip out the pages and tear them into confetti. On a whim, I throw the pieces up and let them rain down on me. Poof. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to provide them with documented proof to collude against me. For what? I did everyone a favour. Billy was a pervert and Mum should have been dead sixteen years ago.
And as for Fern’s baby – I’m the only one who cares enough about her to not want her to be raised by an imbecile. A pair of imbeciles! Time and time again, people have rallied against me. Now I know I have no-one. Not even Fern. Fine by me.
I open my diary on a fresh page and poise my prison-issued suicide-proof pen. I have another entry to make. I’ll start with Fern’s recent interest in my insulin dosage and how I administer it. I’ll say how she and Mum hadn’t been getting along and she’d been resenting having to visit her every week. Then I’ll mention how Fern had always loved my bracelet. And how, finally, a few months ago, I’d agreed to lend it to her. What do you think of that, Fern?
I smile. I hope she’s enjoying her time with my baby. Because once this journal is in circulation, she won’t have her long. I’m telling you, Fern might be the librarian . . . but I’m the one who can spin a tale.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I was watching my little girls play together when the seed was planted for this book. The two of them were rolling around on the grass hugging and giggling with delight, so I took the opportunity to dash back into the house for a moment. But I’d barely crossed the threshold before the moment of harmony turned to bloodcurdling screams.
‘She bit me,’ my older daughter exclaimed, when I charged back outside. Upon inspection I did find a perfect semi-circle of teeth marks.
‘Why did you bite her?’ I asked my younger daughter who was worryingly indifferent to her sister’s pain.
‘Because she annoys me sometimes.’
Sometimes. Not that particular moment. Just sometimes.
The obvious thing to do was to reprimand the younger daughter for biting. But when I tried, my older daughter was indignant.
‘Leave her alone,’ she cried. ‘She’s my baby sister and I love her! Anyway, I’ll bite her back later when she’s not expecting it.’
The next minute they were hugging again.
And if there isn’t a book in that, my name isn’t Sally Hepworth.
But I didn’t do it alone. As always I owe everything to my favourite literary agent, Rob Weisbach, who always answers my questions in record speed (even on weekends) and then insists it wasn’t a stupid or annoying question. We both know the truth. Thank you for lying.
I am indebted to everyone at St. Martin’s, particularly Jen Enderlin who gave me my confidence back when I lost it; Katie Bassel who manages to get me publicity in spite of my terrible penchant for blurting out inappropriate things at inopportune times; Olga Grlic for creating the best covers in the world; and Lisa Senz and Brant Janeway for somehow getting people to know who I am and to buy my books – no mean feat. Also to the rest of the gang at St. Martin’s, who are just so awesome.
To the team at Pan Macmillan, especially publisher Cate Paterson for her patient calming of my neuroses;
