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Apple of My Eye
Claire Allan
‘Utterly addictive. Compulsive, twisty, tense.’ CLAIRE DOUGLAS, author of Local Girl MissingJust how far is a mother willing to go?When a mysterious note arrives for seven months pregnant nurse Eliana Hughes, she begins to doubt every aspect of her life – from her mixed feelings about motherhood to her marriage to Martin, who has become distant in recent months.As the person behind the note escalates their campaign to out Eli’s husband as a cheat, she finds herself unable to trust even her own instincts, and as pressure builds, she makes a mistake that jeopardises her entire future.Elsewhere, someone is watching. Someone who desperately wants a baby to call their own and will go to any lengths to become a mother – and stay a mother…‘A brilliantly paced, intriguingly plotted and thoroughly enjoyable story. One of the best psych thrillers I've read this year.’ LIZ NUGENT








Copyright (#u2267a066-f28b-5401-ae56-372f03f901a4)
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Claire Allan 2019
Cover design © Henry Steadman 2019
Claire Allan 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008275082
Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008328764
Version: 2018-12-20

Praise for Claire Allan: (#u2267a066-f28b-5401-ae56-372f03f901a4)
‘Amazing. I read it in one go.’
Marian Keyes
‘Utterly addictive! Literally couldn’t put it down all day! Compulsive, twisty, tense. And LOVED the ending.’
Claire Douglas
‘A powerful and emotional psychological thriller that will keep you guessing and leave you breathless.’
C.L. Taylor
‘SUCH a good read! It made me feel so uncomfortable, but I still kept gobbling up the pages.’
Lisa Hall
‘Her Name Was Rose is heck of a read! It’s a psychological thriller with a heart; it’s taut, emotionally challenging and, unlike so many thrillers, each twist and turn is here because it deserves to be and not for the sake of it.’
John Marrs
‘An exciting debut that I couldn’t put down, Her Name Was Rose got under my skin in a way I wasn’t expecting. An intriguing and menacing page turner.’
Mel Sherratt
‘The depth of characterisation and its fast pace is what makes Her Name Was Rose stand out as a thriller. It had me hooked until the end.’
Elisabeth Carpenter
‘A tight and twisted tale with a set of seriously complex characters – kept me guessing right ’til the end. This is going to be one of 2018’s smash hits.’
Cat Hogan
‘All I can say is wow! Such a great concept, expertly delivered to keep you turning the pages. This book toys with the reader until the last page. Trust me, this will be THE book of 2018!’
Caroline Finnerty
‘A brilliantly paced, intriguingly plotted and thoroughly enjoyable story. One of the best psych thrillers I’ve read this year.’
Liz Nugent
‘I devoured it in a couple of days. Claire Allan managed to maintain an unsettling sense of unease that started at the very beginning and didn’t let up at all.’
Elle Croft
‘A superior psychological thriller with an intriguing set-up, a flawed heroine and some great twists. Recommended!’
Mark Edwards
‘Claire Allan’s transition into crime writing is seamless. Her Name was Rose brings all the emotional heft and depth of characterisation her readers would expect, but with a taut, menacing plot line. A compulsively thrilling read from start to finish.’
Brian McGilloway
‘Mesmerizing to the point of complete distraction. I was totally engrossed in this book.’
Amanda Robson
‘I loved it. The plot is twisty and the issues being dealt with here are big scale but told beautifully through Emily. Her envy and confusion is so real as to be palpable and of course, all too relatable. Creepy and weepy.’
Niki Mackay

Dedication (#u2267a066-f28b-5401-ae56-372f03f901a4)
In memory of my grandmother, Mary McGuinness, who raised ten children with a fierce love and pride and who always had time and love in abundance for every one of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Especially the bookworms x

Epigraph (#u2267a066-f28b-5401-ae56-372f03f901a4)
The king said, ‘Bring me a sword.’ So they brought a sword before the king. And the king said: ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to one, and half to the other.’
The Judgement of Solomon – 1 Kings 3:16–28
Contents
Cover (#u641d4961-0fb3-5962-8cec-8ace3ac60238)
Title Page (#u0fa719ea-9188-50b5-add3-8d4ece1e3ad9)
Copyright
Praise for Claire Allan
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Louise (#ud4b22568-f2ca-5251-982b-f736bbc162ad)
Chapter One: Eli (#u8061b3b5-e660-5ecb-9e2c-0afb7830558d)
Chapter Two: Eli (#u7c97f835-85ac-5f97-9d80-ce3f2b21d2ec)
Chapter Three: Eli (#uf52707fb-e116-5684-9790-f8ee50f93f81)
Chapter Four: Louise (#uc85f80c5-d1ed-5dad-8fdd-f938772e5c62)
Chapter Five: Eli (#u65e490de-f044-54a1-9e27-f2f9137d4fa1)
Chapter Six: Eli (#u187d8f3c-ec79-5511-935f-782c415ae31f)
Chapter Seven: Louise (#u5c7573fd-f7eb-5e5b-ba82-70f9f4f2af05)
Chapter Eight: Eli (#u48566eb1-85d3-55c5-931e-cc0611220800)
Chapter Nine: Eli (#u820b0178-6a34-5f22-ad8e-3b66e8afd820)
Chapter Ten: Louise (#uffa29042-908f-5a80-bffd-7883a415a680)
Chapter Eleven: Eli (#ue02a1874-4b74-544d-850a-cd083f12cdf6)
Chapter Twelve: Eli (#u9747ab6c-51ee-5a68-93ee-075d65178ace)
Chapter Thirteen: Eli (#u30bc5c0f-8035-5e69-ada0-c9b21537f072)
Chapter Fourteen: Louise (#udeda384d-eece-5ef5-8c77-8fa7b505fbe3)
Chapter Fifteen: Eli (#ue8f97bfc-96a3-51e3-b37b-821064dfd897)
Chapter Sixteen: Eli (#u6189e58f-02e3-5fe9-8cdf-0c99e44092ed)
Chapter Seventeen: Louise (#ub3088677-5529-5e03-9391-f9f841150e24)
Chapter Eighteen: Eli (#u5a587750-b9fa-59c7-a44a-684f5f4fc8a6)
Chapter Nineteen: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Five: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Six: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-One: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Two: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Three: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Four: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Five: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Six: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Louise (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-One: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Two: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Three: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Four: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Five: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Six: Angela (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Eli (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the same author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_084c047b-e67c-5aa0-898e-ed81089d5bac)
Louise (#ulink_084c047b-e67c-5aa0-898e-ed81089d5bac)
As soon as I saw her I knew that she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She was squeezed in behind a table in the café, her face pale, drawn. She rubbed her stomach for the briefest of seconds, as if it were something she’d just remembered she was expected to do. Act the part of the happy mum-to-be; rub your expanding stomach, push it out, flaunt your fecundity to the world.
Everything about her body language screamed that this wasn’t a wanted or loved baby. That she didn’t appreciate what she had. What a gift she’d been given.
She looked like a woman who saw pregnancy as an ordeal. Something to be endured. If only she knew.
When it was me, I’d welcomed every pregnancy symptom. Every single one. The sickness. The sore and swollen breasts. The bleeding gums. The swollen ankles. The backache. Even the acid reflux. It was proof I was doing something miraculous. Making a new life and bringing a new soul into this world.
I’d gone to sleep every night with my hands on my bump, whispering stories and hopes and dreams to my baby. Telling him or her of the life they’d have. Of the love that would be showered down on them. God, I was never as happy as I was when I could feel my baby wriggle and kick. I felt more alive with every movement. The symbiosis of my child and me as we shared each breath.
I deserved to be a mother.
This woman, tired and worn out and miserable, didn’t. Not as much as I did, anyway.
Holding my breath, I watched her across the café as she pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, listened as she sighed loudly.
The thing is, babies don’t really need their mothers. Once they’re delivered, all they want is someone to see to their every need. To feed them, change them, pat them gently on the back to bring up their milky-scented burps. To bathe them and dress and rock them gently to sleep.
Other people could do that.
I could do that.

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e18450a7-3abe-56c9-8df5-b09abb177774)
Eli (#ulink_e18450a7-3abe-56c9-8df5-b09abb177774)
The crisp white envelope sticks out from where it’s been stuffed into my pigeonhole. I lift it, along with the rest of my post, and make my way to the staffroom.
It’s probably a note from one of my families. I both love and hate receiving them. A note or thank-you card of course means I’ve done my job well, but it also usually follows a death. One of my patients will have gone, and a thank-you note will mark part of the admin for a poor family to complete while they’re still shaken from grief.
My name’s printed neatly on the cover. Almost as if it’s been typed, but there’s a small smudge of ink that betrays its handwritten status.
Eli Hughes
Senior Staff Nurse
Cherrygreen Hospice
I don’t think much of it at first. I’m focusing on getting fifteen minutes to compose myself. To try to eat something before my hunger turns to nausea. Drink some coffee before my fatigue overwhelms me. Put my feet up before my ankles swell further. Yes, I’m at the retaining-water stage of pregnancy – seven and a half months – and still waiting for the sickness to pass. I’ve long ago given up on the notion that it’s just morning sickness. Hyperemesis is beyond morning sickness. They should call it pregnancy poisoning. I’m only able to function because of anti-sickness medication, and even then …
There’s a plain ham sandwich – white bread, thin layer of real butter – wrapped in tinfoil in the fridge. My stomach turns at the thought. I’ll try a coffee, even though I shouldn’t. Even though the smell makes me feel woozy and I’ve had my one daily cup already. I need caffeine.
I make a cup and sit down, a plain Rich Tea biscuit in front of me. Lunch. Once this baby’s born, I’ll never, ever eat plain biscuits again.
I turn my attention to the post, the neatly handwritten envelope first. It contains just one sheet of paper: small, blue, lined – the kind on which I’d have written pages and pages of letters to my pen pals when I was a teen. Unfolding it, I see just two lines of text, written in the same neat print:
YOU SHOULDN’T BELIEVE
EVERYTHING HE TELLS YOU
I look at the words and read them again. I turn the page around to see if I’m missing anything on the back page to put these words in context. I even check inside the envelope, peering in, shaking it out. A strange feeling washes over me. Is this some silly joke, or meant for someone else, or a clever marketing scheme for something? I hadn’t the first notion what that could be, but wasn’t that the whole point with clever marketing schemes these days? Get everyone talking. Then bam! The big reveal …
I shouldn’t believe whom? What? I put the note down, then gingerly bite on my biscuit, which crumbles into sawdust in my mouth. I know I won’t finish it.
I don’t have the patience for silly games or puzzles. But I can’t deny my inner nosiness.
Rachel arrives, walks to the fridge, mutters about it being a long day and stares at the wilted salad she’s brought in with her, closing the fridge door in disgust.
‘I think I might run out and grab something from the shop. A sandwich or something. Can I tempt you?’
Rachel does this a lot. Brings in a healthy lunch and forsakes it for something laden with mayonnaise and cheese when push comes to shove. Still maintains an enviable figure – one I envy even more now that I’m expanding at an exponential rate.
‘There’s a ham sandwich in there you can have. It’s good ham. I’m not going to eat it. Will save you nipping out.’
‘And take food from a pregnant woman? Do you think I’m some sort of monster?’ She laughs but opens the fridge anyway and lifts out my tinfoil parcel. She points it in my direction. ‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’
My stomach turns in response and the involuntary face I pull answers her question.
‘You poor thing. You know, Eli, maybe you really should think of starting maternity leave early.’
I shake my head. ‘Nonsense.’ Keen to change the conversation, I push the note in her direction. ‘Look at this note I got. Did you get one like it? Have you any idea what it’s about?’
Sitting down, she takes the note and looks at it. I watch for a reaction on her face. Her eyebrows rise just a little but she shakes her head.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she says. ‘But no, I didn’t get one. Ooh! Eliana Hughes, have you got a stalker?’
She laughs but I don’t. I force a smile but feel my chest tighten. She must notice my expression.
‘Eli, I’m kidding. I’m sure it’s nothing. Someone’s idea of a joke or something. Or mistaken identity. Sure, it’s bound to be that. Who would you have to mistrust? You and Martin have the most solid marriage I’ve ever seen. There’s no way he’d play away.’
Martin.
It didn’t even cross my mind it could be about Martin. Until now. I want to nod and say yes, we’re the most solid couple people know. Because we were … but lately … There’s a disconnect there that I can’t quite put my finger on.
The coffee I’ve been drinking tastes bitter. Of bile. Just like everything else tastes off that I’ve had to eat or drink over the last seven months. Just like everything in my life feels off.
We’d tried so hard to have this baby. Months of disappointment and finally tests. Then ‘There’s nothing we can find, just give it time,’ and more disappointment until, finally, two lines.
It should be the happiest time of our lives. Certainly the happiest time of my life; nurturing a new human life deep within me, bonding with this kicking, wriggling person made of love about to become our baby.
I expected to love every moment of pregnancy, but I realise now I’d been naïve. This kicking, wriggling person who seems to be made of right angles, jabs and pokes at my stomach muscles, which are permanently aching from the daily retching. It makes me feel sorry for myself. I feel angry that I’ve been robbed of a positive pregnancy experience that most women get. And I feel guilty that I resent this pregnancy not being what I wanted it to be. Sure, won’t the end result be the same? Isn’t that what’s important?
And Martin, try as he might, can’t understand how I feel. I suppose I’ve been taking that anger and frustration out on him a little.
I feel tears prick at my eyes. Swear at myself. I can’t cry again today.
‘Eli.’ Rachel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look up at her, her eyes filled with concern. Her hand reaches across the table and takes mine.
‘Eli, you do know Martin would never, ever cheat on you. This isn’t about Martin. This is somebody’s idea of a stupid joke, or it’s about something else we’ve just not figured out yet. But we will.’
I nod, two fat tears rolling down my cheeks. My nose running, I sniff loudly, grab a tissue from the box on the table and roughly rub at my eyes.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Of course you’re right.’
I look at the letter again. It doesn’t reveal anything new, so in a rage I crumple it up and throw it into the bin beside the fridge.
Rachel smiles. Tells me I’ve done the right thing and gives my hand a rub before her pager calls her back to a patient.
When she’s gone, I take it back out and thrust it deep into the bottom of my handbag.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_673c6277-7333-53ca-8997-e371a87b571d)
Eli (#ulink_673c6277-7333-53ca-8997-e371a87b571d)
By the time my shift is done, I’m exhausted and I’m pretty sure my ankles have doubled in size. I can’t wait to get home, kick off my shoes and feel the cool marble floors of our living space under my tired feet.
But my car’s in the garage and I have to wait for Martin to collect me. As usual, he’s late. Probably stuck on a work call he can’t get out of.
I’m standing with my coat on, looking out at the rain falling onto the hospice car park, when Rachel asks if I need a lift.
‘It’s not on your way home,’ I tell her. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I offered,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’ll save that husband of yours coming out on a night like this and sure, it’s not that far out of my way. The kids are at their dad’s, so it’s not like I’m in a rush to get home anyway. You’ve had a long day,’ she says, and I want to hug her.
‘If you’re sure?’ I ask. ‘I’ll just check Martin hasn’t left.’
‘I’m sure,’ she smiles.
I dial my husband, who answers after two rings, apologises and says he’ll be with me shortly. I can hear from the background noises that he’s still at home.
‘Rachel’s going to drop me over. You’ve no need to come out,’ I tell him.
He sounds relieved. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘I can get on with some work while dinner’s cooking. It’s been a mad day, so busy. But look, I’ll talk to you about it when you get home.’
Work has been ‘mad’ for months now. Longer hours. More trips away. A big project that could bring a lot more work his way. When he wants to talk about it, it generally means he’ll tell me about another ‘vital’ trip away. It’s a good thing I’m not the suspicious type.
Or wasn’t.
I end the call and tell Rachel I’ll take her up on her offer.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks as she leads the way to her car. ‘You’re not still mulling over that silly note, are you?’
I force a smile. Shake my head. Lie and say I’m fine and that I’m just tired. Change the conversation to something less likely to make me feel tightness in my chest. We talk about who we’re rooting for in Strictly Come Dancing until we pull up outside my house.
I feel as if I should invite her in, but I’m too tired to play the gracious host.
‘We must get you round for dinner some time,’ I say to her. ‘Have a proper catch-up outside work, when we aren’t both so tired.’ I hope that makes up for the lack of invite tonight.
‘That’d be lovely,’ she says with genuine warmth.
I give her a quick hug then climb out of the car and walk to the front door of my dream home, nervous about what my husband will tell me.
When we first moved to this house just over eighteen months ago, after several years of enduring a three-hour commute between Belfast and Derry, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. There were certain perks to marrying an architect, not that it really mattered to me what Martin did for a living. I’d fallen head over heels in love within weeks of meeting him.
Set on the banks of Enagh Lough, just outside Derry city, Martin had overseen the renovation of the old farmhouse himself. It had taken a year – and lots of blood, sweat and tears – but he’d made our home magnificent.
The rear of the house, which looked out over the lake and the surrounding woods, was mostly glazed. Large plate glass windows set in natural wood frames. Bifold doors onto wooden decking, leading to our own personal jetty – it was stunning in all seasons.
It had felt like our home from the moment we’d walked over the threshold of that ramshackle farmhouse; of course, it felt more so now. It was our bubble in a hectic world that moved at a breakneck speed.
It feels less of a bubble these days. Pregnancy has made me feel vulnerable in a way I never did before. Reliant, not so much on Martin as an individual but on Martin and I as a team. A couple. Ready to work together on this next scary chapter. I’d watched my mother struggle as a single parent. I don’t want that struggle. I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing their father. I think of the note, that stupid piece of paper, and a shiver runs through me.
Dropping my bag on the marble floor in the hall, I hang up my coat and call out to Martin that I’m home.
He walks out of the kitchen, apron on, wine glass in hand, and says hello with a smile. His smile still has the power to make me feel weak at the knees. Even now, ten years after we first met. I smile back, for a moment feeling comforted by his presence.
But even from several feet way, the smell of wine makes me feel nauseous. I take a deep breath, try to swallow down the sickness. If I just take a few minutes to settle myself, take another anti-sickness pill, I might be okay to sit with him for dinner.
‘Did you not invite Rachel in with you?’ he asks, looking behind me.
‘Erm, no. I thought you wanted to talk, and I’m so tired. I didn’t think …’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘She’s good company.’
I tense. Am I not good company on my own? ‘Well, I said we’ll have her over for dinner sometime soon.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Martin says, moving towards me and pulling me into a hug.
‘I’m just going to grab a bath,’ I say, pulling back a little. The smell of garlic is assailing my nostrils. ‘Do I have time?’
‘If you’re quick. Maybe twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d be better waiting until you’ve eaten before you have a soak.’
‘I really need to freshen up. My stomach’s churning, too. Not sure I’ll eat much.’
‘I’ve made a pasta bake. It’s quite light. Not creamy or cheesy. You should try some at least, Eli,’ he says, his face filled with concern. As if he sees me as more vulnerable now, too. No longer an equal partner.
‘You’re very good to me,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ he smiles. ‘I even left mushrooms out of the recipe because I know you can’t so much as look at them at the moment.’
I smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say and continue upstairs, where I run the bath and lie in the water, watching my baby wriggle under my skin, feet and elbows pushing outwards.
I wonder how something so small and innocent can make me feel so sick all the time. I stroke my stomach, whispering, ‘I love you,’ hoping if I say it enough I’ll start to really, really feel it.
After climbing out of the bath, I wrap myself in my fluffy dressing gown and I’m just about to get dressed into my pyjamas, when I hear my phone ring. I look at it and see ‘Mum’ on the screen. I’m so happy to see her name and I wish, not for the first time, that she lived closer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Her reply is immediate. She can always read my mood. Name that emotion in one.
‘Ah, it’s been a long day,’ I say, trying my hardest not to cry.
How is it that talking to my mother instantly brings all my emotions to the fore? I want to tell her about the note but decide not to. She’d only worry and one of us worrying is enough.
‘And the baby? Everything’s okay there?’ she asks, her voice soft but thick with concern.
‘Still making me throw up on a regular basis,’ I say, a hiccup of self-pity ending my sentence for me.
‘You poor pet,’ she soothes. ‘It’ll be worth it. And sure, isn’t sickness a sign of a healthy pregnancy?’
‘This one’ll come out like Superman then,’ I say, forcing a laugh.
‘And Martin? Is everything okay with you both?’
I nod, make some sort of affirmative noise. I don’t want to go down that particular conversational route.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve just got out of the bath. I need to get dried off and into my pyjamas. Martin’s making dinner. I’m planning to get something to eat and go to bed. Work was so busy.’
‘You’re doing too much,’ she says and I feel myself bristle.
This is something she and Martin agree on. They don’t realise that right now, work is the one place I feel in control.
‘I can handle it, Mum. It’s just been a long day,’ I tell her.
‘Well, I don’t like the sound of you one bit,’ she says. ‘I’m going to come and visit on Saturday and I’ll hear no arguments.’
There’s no way I’m going to argue. I could use some maternal TLC. I tell her I’ll look forward to it and that I love her and then I hang up, lie back on the bed and promise myself just five minutes of rest before dinner.
I wake, of course, much later, as Martin comes up to bed. Blinking and stretching, shivering a little, I ask him what time it is.
‘It’s gone eleven. You should just go back to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep. I was planning to come down for dinner.’
My stomach grumbles to reinforce my point.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it into the laundry hamper. ‘I’ve plated some up for you. It’s in the fridge.’
Is it my imagination or is his tone not as soft as it was? He sits on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window over the blackness of the lake. I feel the need to be close to him.
‘C’m’ere,’ I say, reaching my arms out to him.
He turns, gives me a soft smile and climbs under the covers, pulling himself across to me and allowing me to hold him. His hand slips under my dressing gown, to my still naked body. I shiver again, only this time in anticipation. But his hand moves directly to my growing stomach.
‘All this’ll be worth it,’ he says. ‘I know you’re feeling rotten, but this little one’s going to bring us so much happiness and I just know you’re going to be the best mum in the world.’
With his words, our house feels like our bubble again and I smile at him, place my hand on top of his and feel calm. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my hand.
Tempted as I am to fall back to sleep there and then beside him, I know I need to eat something or the nausea will be much worse when it swoops in again.
I sit up, tell him I won’t be long.
‘I just need a bit of toast or something.’
‘Are you shunning my pasta bake for the second time in one night?’ he asks with a crooked smile.
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘Might be too much considering it’s so late, but it’ll do tomorrow night.’
‘Ah, that might be good, actually,’ he says, sitting up. ‘I still need to talk to you about that.’
I pull on my pyjama bottoms and look around to him while putting on my oversized maternity pyjama top.
‘Yeah?’
‘I need to go to London again.’
My heart sinks. It’s been just a week since his last trip. I know it’s a big job, but I hadn’t expected him to have to travel quite so much.
The note in my bag niggles at me again.
‘A snag with the communal play area,’ he says. ‘And the landscaper wants to discuss the garden plans with me. Boring stuff, but I have to be on site. I need to feel the space to see how it would work. They want doors moved from the original plan – which means moving the storage area and redesigning the mezzanine slightly.’
There’s little point in arguing. What would it look like, anyway? I really would be the Wicked Witch of the West if I asked him to pass the work to one of his colleagues at this stage. This project has been his baby, long before we had an actual baby of our own to worry about.
‘How long will you be away for?’ I ask.
Last time it was just two nights, which wasn’t so bad; even if, by the second night, I found myself increasingly anxious without him close by.
‘That’s the kicker,’ he says. ‘I need to be there for a meeting on Tuesday and, realistically, to get the plans done and drawn up … There’s not much point in me coming back until Tuesday night.’
Friday to Tuesday – four nights – over the weekend.
‘I know that means the weekend …’ he says as if reading my thoughts. ‘I thought maybe you could go and see your mum.’
‘I’m working on Saturday,’ I mutter. ‘But Mum was planning to come and visit anyway. See how I am.’
‘Well that’s perfect, then,’ he says, smiling widely. ‘You’ll be well looked after and I won’t have to worry about you so much.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me anyway,’ I say, my tone sharper than I’d like. I cringe at how petulant I sound.
‘But I do, because I love you,’ he enunciates slowly as if to make the point extra clear.
‘If you loved me …’ I start, the words out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think.
‘If I loved you? Really? And what? I’d quit my job? I’m too tired to go over this again, Eli. I know you’re pregnant. I know it’s tough. I know your hormones are raging, but …’ He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m not doing this. Not now. Goodnight, Eli.’
Our earlier exchange feels soured.
All I can think is how, despite the nice dinner and the hugs and the smiles, things are far from right between us.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_46b8a735-b2ff-56e9-97ef-db79ee1b1ddb)
Eli (#ulink_46b8a735-b2ff-56e9-97ef-db79ee1b1ddb)
I leave him to sleep. A couple of slices of toast and a cup of decaf tea later, my brain still doesn’t want to switch off. I sit in the living room, trying to distract myself from my thoughts by watching some American TV show in which a bride-to-be has to choose between a brand-new wedding gown or having her mother’s wedding dress remade into something more suitable for a modern bride.
But, of course, my mind keeps drifting back to my own wedding and my own marriage. To my husband lying upstairs resting before his next work trip. I know I should trust him. I think I do trust him. Mostly. But I wonder, should I be asking more questions?
Maybe if I have a look at his emails. His phone. His wallet. Would I find something to confirm my worst fears or would finding nothing reassure me?
I’ve never snooped on Martin before. I’ve never felt the need and I do feel guilty. I actually feel like an actor in a soap opera as I walk to the dining table, where his suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair. Delving into the pockets, I pull out a receipt for a single cup of coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. A half-empty packet of chewing gum. Assorted small change amounting to seventy-eight pence and some fluff.
Not even Columbo could find evidence of foul behaviour in that. Chiding myself, I put everything back as I found it, feeling like I’m the one who’s betrayed him. I suppose I have. I’ve doubted him.
I probably still do, a little.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be mindful. To be in the moment. It’s a method we use with our patients to help with anxiety. Our patients who have real problems. Mine are nothing in comparison.
I focus on the ticking of the clock. The gentle hum of the fridge freezer. The sound of the rain tapping on the windows. I close my eyes and lie down on the sofa, where I think of everything I can feel and smell, pushing all other thoughts away until my eyes start to droop and I can feel sleep wash over me.
When I wake, the house is silent and there’s a blanket draped over me. I blink, look around. The jacket’s gone from the back of the dining room chair. I see a note propped on the coffee table beside a fresh glass of water, informing me my husband’s left for the airport and didn’t want to wake me as I looked so peaceful. He’s ordered me a taxi as he had to take his car and mine’s still off the road. He loves me, he says. He’ll miss me. And the baby. No mention of the exchange we had last night.
I lift my phone, see that I have just thirty minutes until that taxi arrives, when I need to be in full possession of all of my senses and ready for a day at the hospice. Work will distract me, until home time at least. I wonder, would it be pathetic of me to text my mother and ask her to come down today instead of tomorrow? I know she won’t mind. In fact, she’ll probably jump at the chance to fuss around me more. So I send the text and I breathe a sigh of relief when, just minutes later, she replies that she’ll be with me by home time.
*
I never really believed it when people said they ‘didn’t have a minute to themselves’ before I started working in the hospice.
It’s not unusual for me to realise I’ve been trying to find five minutes to nip to the loo for the last few hours and haven’t found the chance. Our break room is filled with half-drunk coffee cups, the fridge with half-eaten lunches. We do what we can when we’re needed, because that’s what you do when you care for the terminally ill.
You don’t clock out for lunch while someone breaks down in pain or fear or grief. When they just need to tell you their story. That’s not how it works.
I grab a long overdue toilet break mid-shift, no longer able to ignore the baby kicking my bladder. I realise I’ve been so busy that I’ve not had time to think about anything but work. And that feels good.
But I’m still curious. I want to know where the note came from, if possible. I figure if anyone has information about the note, it’ll be Lorraine, our all-seeing admin officer, so I wash my hands, straighten my uniform and walk to reception, where she holds court.
‘A handwritten letter for you?’ she asks, gazing over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses at me as she sits sorting through the day’s mail. ‘I put a couple of things in your pigeonhole yesterday, but no, I don’t remember anything standing out from the norm.’
‘No one hand-delivered it?’
‘Not to my desk, no. There was some post in the box outside when I came in yesterday morning. It was probably among that.’
‘Right,’ I say, feeling disappointed that I’ve hit a dead end but wondering how many dead ends I need to hit before I accept there’s nothing more sinister to find.
‘Is it important?’ Lorraine asks. ‘Have you got the envelope there? Maybe if I saw it, it might trigger a memory.’
‘No, no, it’s not important. I’m just nosy,’ I lie.
‘Well, I hope it was something nice for you. A thank-you card or something.’
‘Something like that,’ I say and smile before excusing myself to get back to work.
Rachel is on shift, too, and we find ourselves together at lunchtime, with her eating my sandwiches while I make a piece of toast. It’s an improvement on some dry biscuits anyway.
‘I have to say, Eli, these sandwiches aren’t up to Martin’s usual standards. You must have words,’ she jokes.
‘Well, that’s because I made those. Martin’s away for a few days with work.’
‘Again?’ she asks, eyebrows raised for just a moment before she readjusts her expression. ‘I suppose the project will be nearly done now. Best he gets away before this baby comes, I guess.’
‘Yes, some last-minute glitches,’ I say, the toast losing its appeal.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence.
‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she says. ‘With the “again”. Me and my big mouth – you know what I’m like.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘He’s been away a lot.’
I know Rachel isn’t trying to be insensitive. I know she’s still sore from the break-up of her own marriage, which ended after her husband had an affair. Or, to be more accurate, numerous affairs.
I change the subject. I don’t feel comfortable falling down this particular rabbit hole with her.
‘I have to nip out to pick up my car from the garage,’ I tell her.
‘Let me run you there in my car,’ she offers. ‘I’ll pick us up something nice for afternoon break.’
I notice the sandwich I made has barely been touched. It would be churlish of me to refuse her offer of a lift, so I smile and thank her, and we grab our things and climb into her car.
‘Excuse the mess,’ she says as she throws an empty McDonald’s paper into the back seat, which is strewn with empty drinks bottles, a dog lead and a pair of rather smelly football boots.
‘It’s no messier than it was last night, don’t be worrying,’ I tell her.
‘At least last night the darkness hid the worst of it,’ she laughs.
As we drive to the garage, I know I’m too quiet. My head’s full of words, but I don’t know how to say them without sounding like I’m a paranoid wreck. I hate this feeling. Normally, conversation flows really easily between Rachel and me, and we can share each other’s worries and concerns.
‘He loves you very much, you know,’ Rachel says as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards the garage. ‘That’s what’s on your mind, isn’t it? That stupid note. But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted husband. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn yesterday. He’s one of the good guys.’
And he is. Without doubt. I remind myself not to make problems where none exist.
*
At 3.43 p.m., we watch a sixty-three-year-old man hold his fifty-nine-year-old wife’s hand as her chest stills. The rattle that’s come with each breath for the last twelve hours slows then stops, and the grip she’s held on his hand releases. I watch a man, still alive in every physical way that matters, die a little in front of me as he kisses his wife of thirty years on her lips before they have the chance to turn cold.
Then, very tenderly, Rachel and I do what we need to with his wife who we’ve cared for over the course of the last week. We remove the tubes and wires. We tidy the bed sheets around her. We open the window, an old hospice tradition, believed to let the spirit of the deceased move on. Then we stand back and let her family begin their grieving process.
‘Some are tougher than others,’ Rachel says as we leave.
‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t bring myself to say more. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it together.
‘Almost home time,’ she says.
‘And we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ I respond, too worn out to say anything else.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_953a4d89-7afd-5b73-9030-bca73c0653f2)
Louise (#ulink_953a4d89-7afd-5b73-9030-bca73c0653f2)
I’d told myself if I saw her again before the end of the week, it’d be a sign from God that I was right. This baby was the one I’d been waiting for.
I’d been on edge since I first saw her. Always looking at the door of the café, watching every person come in, feeling frustrated when it’d been someone else.
But then, I was in the supermarket, half-heartedly throwing a sad selection of meals for one, to be washed down with a bottle of wine, into my basket, when I saw her hovering around the fresh fruit aisle.
She looked more tired than before. The dark circles under her eyes only highlighted her pallor. She probably needed iron, I thought. She had apples and grapes in her basket, but really she should’ve been stocking up on leafy greens, red meat. That kind of thing. I was tempted to talk to her, but what would I have said?
What would it have looked like? A mad woman in the supermarket telling her that she needs more iron in her diet.
I followed her from a distance. Watched as she put some fresh bread into her basket. Wholemeal. That was good at least. As was the fresh orange juice she chose. It was good to see she could make some decent choices for her baby. The chocolate biscuits, the tinned soup – neither of those were particularly nutritious. Not for an expectant mother. I shook my head.
Her baby needed to be well. I needed this baby to be well.
I wasn’t one of those crazies who thought a woman became nothing more than an incubator when she fell pregnant, but the baby always had to come first. Anything else was selfish. A mother shouldn’t just eat what she wanted, do what she wanted without considering the life she was growing inside her.
Every baby deserved the best start in life.
That’s how it had been with me. Not that it mattered in the end.
Maybe I knew nothing. Maybe this woman with her tinned soup and her packet of biscuits knew more than I did. It wouldn’t matter in a few months’ time anyway. I’d be able to feed my baby all the healthy food they needed.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_18360d40-c2ee-5a06-8612-eb73ee67b288)
Eli (#ulink_18360d40-c2ee-5a06-8612-eb73ee67b288)
My mother’s car is parked outside my house. I smile when I see it, even though I know she’ll probably drive me mad within an hour of being in her company.
As I pick up the couple of bags of shopping I’d left on the passenger seat, I watch the rain bounce off the ground outside, remembering how my mother told me that the splashes of water were actually fairies dancing. I believed her for so long. If I’m honest, I think a part of me still believes her now, or chooses to at least. I rub my tummy. I’ll tell my baby that story. Create a bit of magic for them just as my mother had for me. Even when we didn’t have much, we’d always had some magic.
I’m still watching the fairies dance and jump, when I see the door to my house open and the porch light switch on. My mother stands there, pulling her cardigan tightly around her as she looks out through the rain. She blinks, looks at me and waves, and I wave back.
Suddenly, I’m the overexcited primary school pupil seeing her mother arrive in the playground at the end of a long day of colouring in and learning to write my letters. I just want a hug from her, so I open the car door and trample through the dancing fairies into my mother’s now open arms, still holding the shopping bags.
‘Sweetheart, I was so worried. Where’ve you been? I was expecting you home an hour ago.’ The genuine concern in her voice warms my heart.
‘I just called into town to pick up a few things. I’ve not had time to do a big shop so our cupboards are bare. It’s just some basics.’
She ushers me in through the door and takes the bags from me. Sitting them on the floor, she helps me out of my coat.
‘There was no need. I’m sure you’re wrecked after your day at work and the last thing you needed to be doing was running round the shops. Besides, you should know by now that I always come prepared.’
The smell of her special chicken soup hits me and I’m shocked to feel hungry.
‘Is that your soup? Oh! Mum, it smells delicious. I got some lovely fresh bread that’ll go down a treat with it.’
‘We make a great pair,’ she says. ‘Of course, if you moved back to Belfast we could make a great pair all the time.’
‘Mum,’ I say, teasing. ‘Enough. You know we’re settled here. Martin’s practice is here. My job is here. Our lovely home is here. Martin’s family is here. You could always move down, though.’
She bristles. This is a discussion we’ve had before.
‘You know I have my own life in Belfast,’ she says. ‘I’m too old to start again somewhere new. You and Martin, though, you’re young things who could make a go of things anywhere.’
‘Shall we stop this conversation before it gets heated?’ I ask. ‘And can we also get me some of that soup? I’m hungry.’
‘I knew my soup would tempt you,’ she says, beaming. ‘When you were a little girl, chicken soup always brought you round when you were feeling poorly. You could be looked after like this all the time if—’
‘Mum!’ I fire a warning shot and she shrugs her shoulders. Tells me she was ‘just saying’ before taking two bowls from the cupboard and ladling the soup into them.
I slice the bread, bring it and butter to the dining table. Sitting down, I look out through the bifold doors at the darkness of the lake. The rain is battering the glass, raindrops chasing raindrops down the windows. It’s going to be a rough night. I catch my reflection against the blackness. Mum’s right, I do look worn out.
She carries the soup over on a tray along with two glasses of water and when she sits down, she looks me straight in the eyes.
‘So, maybe you can tell me all about what’s making you so stressed.’
‘I’m not stressed,’ I lie.
‘Eliana Johnston, I know you better than I know myself. You called me and asked me to come down a day early. Now I know you love me dearly, but you never ask me to come down early unless something’s nipping at you.’
‘Hughes,’ I correct her, ‘my name is Eliana Hughes now.’ I take a spoonful of soup, blow on it gently before bringing the spoon to my mouth. It’s delicious. I try to distract my mother by telling her how lovely it is.
‘I know it’s lovely,’ she says with a smile, ‘just as you know you will always be Eliana Johnston to me. But that’s not what we’re talking about just now, is it?’
‘Just now I want to eat my soup, Mum. I’m too tired to think straight, you know?’
‘Okay,’ she says, but I feel her eyes on me as I eat.
She fusses around after, making sure I’m comfortable and relaxed. Only when I’m curled under a throw on the sofa in front of the blazing fire does she ask me again what’s wrong.
‘You know you can tell me anything,’ she says, her blue eyes wide.
My mother has the most beautiful blue eyes in the world, bright aquamarine. So vibrant. I’m incredibly jealous I haven’t inherited them and secretly hope my baby will.
I nod, but I feel a little silly and more than a little embarrassed. How can I tell her that her very-much-in-control daughter is struggling with pregnancy and worried the life she loves is about to disappear from under her feet?
‘Everything with the baby okay?’
The baby – always her first thought. I feel a pang of irrational something. Jealousy maybe. Whatever it is it’s followed immediately by guilt at having a negative feeling towards my own child.
‘The baby’s fine. Kicking and wriggling as normal. Still making me sick, so I’m pretty sure my hormones are still doing exactly what they should.’
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were concerned for the baby at all.’
‘Of course, Mum,’ I say.
And I mean it. My concern isn’t so much for the baby but more about how I’ll cope as a mother. Especially if I end up on my own. We’re not all like my mother. We don’t all thrive on our own.
‘Have you told Martin yet that you know the baby is a girl?’
I blush. I’m not at all comfortable with the fact that I know the sex of our baby and he doesn’t. But he wants it to be a surprise. I did too, until I started to feel so terribly ill and so worried that it’d affect how I bonded with her. So I’d figured that if I knew, it’d make her more real to me. That it might help.
I’m not in the habit of keeping things from my husband. Or I hadn’t been, but things had been different recently. I suppose I’ve been trying to justify it to myself, telling myself it doesn’t really matter. It’ll still be a surprise for him when she’s born, but I know that I’ve broken his trust. Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m even entertaining the notion he could be breaking mine, too. I know first-hand how easy it is to lie by omission, to hide what I know. I’ve even hidden a set of three pink onesies in a drawer upstairs.
‘No, Mum, and I don’t think I will. We’re close now anyway. I don’t think it’d do any good to anyone to cause upset now.’
‘Well, I can’t wait until it’s all out in the open. Then I can go legitimately mad in the shops and buy up all the pink in the world.’
‘You don’t have to go mad in the shops, Mum,’ I said. ‘You keep your money for yourself.’
‘Nonsense! I know I don’t have to spend my money on the baby, but I want to, and more than that, I’m going to. I’ve been saving up.’
‘Mum, you need your money. Save it up if you want but keep it for yourself. This baby’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘I’ve worked hard all my life, Eli, and if I want to spend my money on my grandchild, I will. And that’s the end of it. Sure, what else would I spend my money on? This is something happy! My first grandchild.’
‘And probably your last,’ I say with a grimace. ‘I can’t imagine ever going through this again.’
‘Everyone feels like that during your stage of pregnancy,’ my mother soothes. ‘You don’t know how you’ll feel after the birth, but I can tell you that even if you only have the one child, she’ll be more than enough.’
‘Did you always feel that way, Mum? Always feel I was enough?’ I ask.
She tilts her head to one side and those sparkling blue eyes look at me again. ‘From the moment I first held you, my darling, I knew that I’d never need or want anyone else in my life but you. If life had given me more children I’d have loved them too, of course I would. But I never felt anything but complete with you in my life.’
It’s too much emotion for pregnant me. I feel my chest tighten and I hug her. ‘I love you, Mum,’ I whisper into the soft curls of her hair on her cheek, the familiar smell of her Chanel No. 5 perfume comforting me.
‘You’ll be a great mother, Eliana. Don’t doubt yourself. Not even for a second. And I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.’
‘I know,’ I whisper.
‘And you can tell me anything.’
‘I know that, too,’ I say.
‘Like if there was any reason you asked me to come down a day earlier than planned.’ She raises one eyebrow.
She’s not one to give up easily.
‘I told you, Mum, it’s nothing. Martin was just going away for work and, well, it’s getting closer to the baby coming and all …’
‘If you’re sure that’s all?’ she asks.
I nod. Thinking that yes, it is indeed easy to lie or just not tell the whole truth. Much too easy.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_ee37abc4-2d97-5df3-ac25-db00dd2b2d04)
Eli (#ulink_ee37abc4-2d97-5df3-ac25-db00dd2b2d04)
It’s just after 9.30 p.m. when my mother, seeing how hard I’ve been trying to stifle my yawns, orders me off to bed. I don’t argue. I’m bone tired but thankful that I’m also feeling soothed by my chat with Mum.
I plug my phone in to charge, rest it on the bedside table and climb under the covers. I’m just about to close my eyes, when it rings.
I see Martin’s name on the screen and, suddenly, I desperately want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I even think, maybe, just maybe, my mother’s right and I should tell him I know about the sex of the baby.
I don’t have to tell him she’s a girl. I can leave that surprise for him for the big day, but I shouldn’t keep from him the fact that I know. Not when I know how much of a spin it’s put me in to think he could be keeping something from me.
Answering the call, I do my best to sound jolly, to sound just like the Eli he fell in love with and not the grumpy wife he’d had words with last night.
‘Hi, baby, how’s your day been?’ I say.
He sighs, or maybe it’s a yawn. ‘Long and busy, but I wanted to check in with you before I settle down for the night. I didn’t like how we left things last night.’
‘We were both tired, let’s just file it under a “bad day” and let it go,’ I say.
‘How’s everything?’ he asks.
‘It’s fine, Martin. Mum came down early and made a big pot of her famous chicken soup. She insisted on doing the washing-up herself and packing me off to bed. I was just settling down. I’m in bed already.’
‘I wish I was there with you,’ he says softly.
Something in me, the part of me that needs this man always, tightens. I wish I could see his face, feel his breath on my face, his skin touching my skin.
‘I wish you were here, too,’ I tell him. ‘I really do.’
‘I’ll be home in a few days,’ he says. ‘We can make up for it then. At least you’ve got your mother there for company while I’m gone.’
‘That’s true, but she’s not as good at spooning me as you are,’ I say.
‘Well, I do make for a very good big spoon,’ he says and I hear the longing in his voice.
It makes me feel loved. It makes me feel love for him. It makes wonder how I could ever doubt him.
He yawns and I know he’s too tired to launch into any deep conversation, so I tell him I love him and promise to talk to him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about the baby’s gender then.
I also make a promise to myself to take the stupid note out of my bag in the morning and throw it in the bin where it belongs. And to leave it there this time.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_7fb36d81-1a0f-5039-9f64-087a58c54cc6)
Louise (#ulink_7fb36d81-1a0f-5039-9f64-087a58c54cc6)
It couldn’t be that hard to follow someone, I figured. Especially at night-time when the roads are quieter. So I did. I walked behind her out of the supermarket. Left my basket abandoned in one of the aisles. Didn’t pay. I’d make do with toast for dinner.
Fate smiled kindly on me. The woman had parked her car close to the supermarket exit and I got a full look at the make and model. I knew my own car was parked just two minutes away on the main road, and if I hurried I’d still be able to follow her.
I got to my car as quickly as I could and switched on the engine, cursing that the windows of the old rust bucket I’d the misfortune to drive were so badly steamed up. I stuck the blowers on full. I didn’t have time to wait. I couldn’t let her get out of my sight and away. I grabbed the old chamois leather I kept in the glovebox and wiped the inside of the windscreen furiously. Just as I looked up, I saw the flash of headlights from the car park exit. Her car emerged and turned left towards the Foyle Bridge.
I swore under my breath. My visibility was still shocking and I was pointing in the wrong direction. I needed to do a U-turn, but with my rear windows still clouded over I couldn’t see clearly enough to do it safely.
I could take a chance, I supposed. I wound down my window and stuck my head out, tried to gauge what else was on the road. She was getting away, so I slammed my car into first and turned the steering wheel. The road was clear and I could make a go for it.
But just as I moved off, the car juddered, stalling with a thud. And the road was no longer clear, and my engine wasn’t catching when I turned the key in the ignition. Her rear lights were moving further and further into the distance, blurring with the rain and the condensation and actually, my tears, too.
I slammed my fist on the steering wheel in frustration, the horn blaring loudly.
Kneading my forehead with the heels of my hands, I tried to regain my composure. This was just a setback. This wasn’t defeat. I’d still do this. Nothing of worth in this world was ever easily achieved. I reminded myself that I’d asked God to send me a sign and He had. He’d brought her to me and I had to keep faith that He would bring her, and her baby – my baby – to me again.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_68f7e59e-3cae-5952-ba2d-aad016a0533f)
Eli (#ulink_68f7e59e-3cae-5952-ba2d-aad016a0533f)
The screech of the security alarm wakes me. Did I hear glass breaking? My heart’s thumping and I sit up in the darkness, afraid to turn on the light, trying to figure out what’s happening as my body adjusts to the rude awakening. I can’t think. The noise is too loud.
I put my hand to my stomach – a protective instinct, maybe. It’s what a mother should do. Mother. I think of my mum. She’s two doors away down the hall. Is she awake? Is she safe? I want to call out, but what if someone’s near? An intruder. What if I’m drawing attention to us? My bedroom door’s closed but not locked. Why would it be?
I curse the alarm. It’s so loud I can’t hear if anyone’s approaching, climbing the stairs, rattling the door handles.
The security company will call, I remind myself. If I don’t answer, they’ll send the police. Or at least, I think that’s what they’ll do. I’ve never really checked; never felt like we’d really need the system. It was just one of those things.
I try to place the breaking glass – had it happened or had I dreamed it? It has to be real. The alarms only go off if there’s a breach into the house.
Climbing out of bed, I lift my phone, switch it to silent mode, creep to the en suite and lock myself in, keeping the lights out. I’m shaking. Adrenaline, I tell myself. A hormone. Just like all the other hormones. It won’t kill me. I’ll be fine. I hope my mother is. I need her to be okay. I need her to be here with me. And God, I wish Martin were here, too. And where are the police? The call from the security firm? I glance at my phone. They’ll call him first, I curse, if no one taps in the security code.
I think of how isolated I am. Here in this beautiful home, which is to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. People don’t just walk past. Most people don’t even know this house exists, closeted away as it is by the surrounding trees. No one outside these four walls will hear the alarms. No one else’ll come running to help us.
I search my phone, fat fingers mistyping as I try to see if I have a number for the security firm saved. I should just call the police. I can’t think. The noise of the bloody alarm’s starting to hurt my ears and my stomach’s swirling, with both fear and pregnancy sickness. I realise that I’m going to throw up. I clamber to the toilet, try to be as quiet as I can.
My mother’s still two rooms away. Or I hope she is. What if she’s hurt? I grab a towel, wipe my mouth, try to orientate myself after the sickness has made me dizzy. My phone lights up with the sight of an incoming call notification from a private number and I answer, trying to keep my voice low, which is ridiculous given the screeching of the alarms.
A calm voice speaks, asks me for our password and asks if I’m safe.
‘I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t hear anything over the noise of the alarm. But I think, I think there was broken glass before. I think I heard a smash.’
‘Okay. We’ve notified the police of a potential break-in. We can deactivate the alarm if you wish,’ the calm voice says.
‘Yes, yes, do that,’ I say, thinking it might give me a chance to think.
‘Okay, Mrs Hughes. We’ll do that. The police should be with you soon. If you’re in a secure place, we’d recommend you stay there.’
‘Okay,’ I whisper, trying not to think about my mother. What must she be thinking? Is she scared?
The alarm falls silent. I can still hear buzzing in my ears. A rattle at the bathroom door makes me jump.
‘Eli, it’s me.’ My mother’s voice. I hear it and feel it at the same time.
Tears spring to my eyes. I reach for the door and unlock it, pulling her into a hug.
‘Mum, you’re okay. Thank God. The police are coming.’
She holds me. I allow myself to nestle against the soft fabric of her dressing gown.
‘I’m fine,’ she says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Whoever it was ran away as quickly as they arrived. I was downstairs, couldn’t sleep. Heard the crash – it was the glass beside the door. I ran from the kitchen, but they were driving off. I’m sorry I didn’t get a look at the vehicle. I don’t have my glasses on.’
I can feel her trembling and cold as I hug her.
‘Oh, God, no, I’m glad you didn’t get near them. And they didn’t see you. Mum, you could’ve been hurt!’
‘I didn’t think,’ she says. ‘I just, well, I didn’t know what to do. They threw something in. I didn’t see what it was, but it looked like it was wrapped in paper.’
I stand up, start to walk towards the stairs.
‘Don’t you think we should wait? For the police. You don’t know what it might be.’
I switch on the landing light and look down into the hall. My mother’s right, of course, to be cautious. This is still Northern Ireland. Security alerts aren’t a thing of the past. You never know why someone might target you.
But it doesn’t look like a device of any sort. It’s more rudimentary than that. Solid. I can see the rough edges of a rock, wrapped in what looks like paper. A brown elastic band wrapped around both.
‘I think it’s just a rock,’ I call to her.
‘But better to be safe,’ she says.
She looks pale in the light. Shaken. She must have had such a fright.
I feel a chill run up my spine. This could’ve been worse. If they’d seen her, would they have hurt her, or did they see her and that scared them away? I walk down the stairs, get closer to the rock. No signs of wires or tubing. I know I should leave it for the police but I’m curious. I can’t understand why anyone would do this.
‘Wait there,’ I call to my mother.
I open the door of the hall cupboard, dig into a bag filled with other plastic carrier bags and pull two out. Wrapping them around my hands, I walk back to where the rock lies.
‘Eliana, you’re not going to lift that, are you?’ My mother looks horrified.
‘It’s just a rock. I’ll be careful. Look, I’m covering my hands, making sure I don’t disturb evidence.’
I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Evidence? When did my life become an episode of CSI? I chide myself for being too flippant. I carefully lift the rock, pull the elastic from it and unwrap the paper. I turn it towards me and staring back at me, I see the same neatly printed writing that I saw on the note in the bottom of my bag.
My stomach drops. I feel my legs start to shake. I can’t ignore this. I can’t see this as anything more than what it is. A threat. A revelation. An accusation.
SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON AT THIS TIME OF YEAR
ROMANTIC WALKS, PERHAPS?
A DATE AT THE THEATRE?
IF I WERE YOU, I’D WATCH MY HUSBAND MORE CLOSELY …
I drop the rock. I hear my mother’s voice somewhere in the distance just as I hear the siren of an approaching police car.

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_072b1f4c-16fa-5bc8-b74e-e93eb893d25b)
Eli (#ulink_072b1f4c-16fa-5bc8-b74e-e93eb893d25b)
A polite female police officer has made two cups of sweet tea. Mum’s sipping gingerly at hers, the rattling of the cup on the saucer showing that she’s still on edge. I’ve put my cup down. I only had to glance at it to know there’s no way I’d be able to drink it. My stomach is swirling, my head now sore, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I want to ring Martin. Now. Ask him. Now. Accuse him?
I excuse myself and stand up. I walk to the sink and fill a glass with water so I can wash down one of my anti-sickness pills. Not that I think it’ll make any difference just now.
The police officer, Debbie, or Denise, or Dotty or something – I hadn’t quite caught it – eyes me sympathetically.
‘Sickness tablet,’ I tell her. ‘It’s hyperemesis – morning sickness that doesn’t want to go away, essentially. These help.’
‘That must be tough,’ she says.
‘It is. But I’m told it’ll be worth it.’
That, of course, was before someone had pointed the finger directly at my husband, telling me he isn’t to be trusted. Romantic walks? Theatre dates? Sex? Intimacy? Love? My stomach turns again and I close my eyes, breathe deeply, try to quell the sickness. She must think me such a fool.
‘How far gone are you?’ she asks.
‘Thirty-two weeks. Almost there.’
‘Babies have a great way of bringing people together,’ she says, and I wonder, is it true? Especially if people don’t want to be together to start with. Or at least one of them doesn’t appear to.
I shrug my shoulders, walk back to the sofa, where I sit beside my mother. Dotty or Daisy – actually, I think it was Deirdre – sits across from me. Adopts an ‘I’m listening’ face while her colleague, tall, cropped red hair, eyes bleary with tiredness, continues to make notes.
‘So you can’t think of who might have done this?’ he asks.
William. His name is William. I remember that.
I shake my head.
‘Who on earth would want to frighten Eliana?’ my mother asks. ‘She’s a nurse in the hospice, for the love of God. And she’s pregnant.’
‘And your husband’s in London, like the note says?’
My face blazes with embarrassment or shame, I can’t decide. My name is Eliana and I can’t keep my man. I feel my wedding ring pinch at my finger. It’s started to get too tight, but that doesn’t mean I want to take it off.
‘We’ll have to talk to him, of course,’ William says.
‘Of course,’ I nod.
‘And when is he due back from London?’
‘Tuesday,’ I reply. ‘He’s working there.’
William nods, as does Deirdre. I wonder what else they’ve dealt with tonight. Do they think I’m just some crazy woman with a cheating husband? A waste of police resources.
‘If you give me his number, I’ll give him a call. Ask a few questions.’
‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘I imagine he’ll be worried. The security company will probably have called him first.’
I rhyme his number off. It’s one of only two mobile numbers I remember by heart – his and mine. Deirdre writes it down, stands up, takes her phone from her pocket and taps in the number. She walks out of earshot just after I hear him answer. I’m tempted to follow her … I want to hear his reaction. His first reaction.
William speaks again. ‘We’ll investigate all angles,’ he says. ‘We’ll get SOCO out as early as possible in the morning to examine the scene.’
‘Can they not come now?’ my mother asks, a hint of impatience.
He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. It’s more useful if they come when the light’s better. They can get a good look at any unusual tyre tracks or the like. We’d ask you not to disturb anything before they get here.’
I feel embarrassed again. I’ve already lifted the rock, read the note. I did cover my hands, but I probably should’ve left it where it was.
‘It’s possible Mr Hughes’ll be able to shed some light on everything,’ William says, nodding in the direction of his colleague.
‘Well, it was hardly him, he’s out of the country. I told you that,’ my mother fusses.
I say nothing. I know exactly what this policeman isn’t saying. This is a domestic. A wronged husband maybe, making sure that his hurt is shared by me, and by default Martin. I think of the note in my bag. The note that just hours ago I was convinced I was going to bin.
‘There’s something else I need to show you,’ I tell him.
I can see my mother’s eyes widen. I blush again as I get up and go to fetch my bag from the hall. She’ll be annoyed that I didn’t tell her about it when it happened. But it was so vague and I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t want to believe it.
It’s a bit more crumpled, but it’s still there. I pull it out, straighten it and hand it to William. He pauses to put on latex gloves before taking it from me. I suppose it’s evidence now. I really must ask his full name again. His rank.
‘Sorry, my head’s all over the place. Can you tell me your name again?’
‘Constable William Dawson,’ he replies, not looking up from the note. ‘And where did this come from?’
‘What is it?’ my mother asks impatiently.
‘It was delivered to my work. No postmark, so I think hand-delivered. No one saw who left it; I asked our admin officer.’
‘And when was this?’
I try to think … two days ago, wasn’t it?
‘The day before yesterday.’
I’m aware of my mother’s sharp intake of breath beside me.
‘And what actually is it, Eliana?’ she says.
I notice William, Constable Dawson, look up at her. Her motherly tone is fierce when in full flow.
‘A note, Mum,’ I say.
‘Well clearly,’ she says. ‘But what does it say?’
Dawson holds it out in her direction. ‘Can you make sure not to touch it? We’ll be taking this with us for forensic analysis.’
She nods, and leans towards the note. Her eyes widen and I see her hand go to her chest, to finger the gold crucifix she always wears. I watch as she inhales and turns to me, puts her hand on my knee.
‘This doesn’t mean anything, Eli. None of this. You’re not to be annoying yourself about it.’
I almost laugh. She’s trying to tell me this is nothing while we sit in a house that’s been broken into, talking to two police officers.
‘This puts a different slant on things,’ Dawson says. ‘Multiple letters.’
‘Two is hardly multiple,’ I hear my mother interject.
I ignore her, nod to Dawson.
‘I don’t understand why anyone would do this,’ I say.
‘Sheer malice,’ my mother says. ‘Some people have so little to bother them that they put a pregnant woman through this ordeal.’
‘We’ll see what we can find out. Check for any CCTV close by, see if we can pick up the car on it. There are a number of avenues we can look at,’ Dawson says, his expression sympathetic.
Deirdre walks back in. ‘I’ve spoken to your husband. He’s obviously concerned about you.’
‘I’ll call him soon,’ I say, thinking there are one or two questions I need to ask him myself.
She looks at her colleague. ‘Mr Hughes says he can’t think of anyone who may hold a grudge and says there is no truth at all to the allegations in the note. I’ve asked him to come and see us on Tuesday when he arrives home.’
‘There’s a second note,’ Dawson says. ‘Similar kind of thing. I’ll just bag it here for evidence.’ He takes a small plastic bag from his pocket and slips the note in, sealing it afterwards and handing it Deirdre. She reads it through the clear plastic and looks back at me, sympathy written all over her face. I imagine she thinks I’m deluded too.
‘That’s your crime reference number. You’ll need that when you contact your insurance company. My number’s there, but obviously I’m on night shifts at the moment, so you won’t be able to reach me during the day. I’ll get a colleague to call you in the morning, or they might come out with SOCO,’ Dawson says.
I nod.
‘It’s entirely up to you if you want to stay here tonight,’ he said. ‘But obviously we’d advise you to make sure the property’s as secure as possible.’
I glance down at my swollen stomach and to my mother, who looks stunned by everything. I wonder how exactly we’re supposed to ‘secure the property’.
‘Maybe we should go to a hotel,’ I say to my mother.
‘And leave the house open to anyone?’ she says. ‘No, Eliana. We’ll stay here and we’ll not let whoever this spiteful creature is win.’
‘We can help secure the property for you,’ Dawson says. ‘It’ll be a bit of a make-shift job but it will do until morning?’
‘That would be great,’ my mother says.
‘Good, if you have some bin bags or an old sheet, and some masking tape or something similar?’ he asks. My mother nods and sets about gathering what he has asked for. It all still seems very surreal to me.
‘If you can think of anything at all that might help, or of anyone who we should talk to, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m very sorry you’ve had this upset,’ he says, as he waits. ‘And it probably goes without saying that if you receive any more notes from this person, or if you feel in danger at all, that you contact us immediately. Use 999 if necessary, we’ll have this address flagged with first responders so that any call from here will be prioritised.’
I nod. By this stage I’m exhausted. I just want them to go. I want to sit down. Close my eyes. Pretend none of this is happening. I want to speak to Martin, but what do I say? Do I ask him outright if he’s having an affair? Do I go in all guns blazing? Do I start packing his bags, throw them out into the drive to languish in the rain until he returns? Do I leave? Do I stay and believe him and live in fear of the next note, or the next rock through a window, or the next whatever? Martin, my Martin – romantic walks. Dates. With someone else. I want to scream. This must be what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you.
My mother arrives back with a roll of bin bags, some masking tape and a dustpan and brush to lift the broken glass. I offer to help, but both police officers insist that my mother and I sit down. They can manage. I can only imagine they feel sorry for us – this heavily pregnant woman whose husband might be cheating, and this older lady wandering about in her nightie and dressing gown.
I’m relieved when they finally finish their task and leave, sympathetic smiles on their faces, and I finally give in to the tears that have been threatening for the last hour.
‘Eliana, why on earth did you not tell me about this note?’ Mum’s voice cuts through my thoughts, jolts me into the now. ‘I knew there was something you weren’t telling me – some reason you’d asked me to come down early.’
‘There wasn’t really anything to tell,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it was about Martin. I didn’t think it could be about Martin. Oh! Mum, what am I going to do?’
‘You’re going to talk to him. You’re going to ask him to come home and you’re going to talk about this face-to-face.’
I nod. I start to cry and she’s beside me, hugging me.
‘Wait until you talk to him, Eli,’ she soothes. ‘He’s a good man. Now, how about we try to get some sleep? This will all seem less insurmountable in the morning. Go to bed, darling. Call Martin just to let him hear your voice and just for you to hear his, but then tell him you need him home. You need to talk. I’m sure he’ll come.’
‘But his work …’ I say, even though at this moment I don’t care about his work.
‘His work will still be there the day after tomorrow,’ she says and kisses my head. ‘Now, young lady,’ she adds softly, ‘go to bed.’

CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_c5e68d2d-d737-5900-84f3-32ec5eea7635)
Louise (#ulink_c5e68d2d-d737-5900-84f3-32ec5eea7635)
The next time I saw her she looked like a ghost. Her skin was so pale. Her hair lank. I was sure she’d lost weight. She didn’t seem to want to eat. She wasn’t even making an effort with the cup of tea in front of her.
I remember that feeling. After.
I felt as if I were see-through. As if I were floating and no one else could see me. Because if they did, they wouldn’t have laughed and joked with each other. They wouldn’t have huddled together to gossip. They wouldn’t have smiled at me and wished me good morning.
That man? Well, he wouldn’t have said ‘Cheer up, love. It might never happen.’
I wasn’t one for violence, but I relished the feeling of the bare skin of my palm as it struck his face, the bristles of his beard stinging. The look of shock in his eyes. I’ll remember that, just as I’m sure he’ll remember the look of anger in mine.
‘What would you know?’ I asked him before walking off.
He could’ve come after me, of course. He could’ve hit me back. He could’ve called the police. To be completely honest, I didn’t care. Nothing was right or fair in the world any more and I didn’t give a damn about whether or not I hurt other people.
They didn’t care that I was hurting.
That woman, sitting with her moping face over the cup of weak tea she had yet to touch, didn’t care that I was hurting. She wouldn’t want to think about what had happened to me. Even if I sat down opposite her and opened my heart to her, she would’ve backed away. She would’ve covered her ears.
I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to ask her, why wasn’t she happy? Why didn’t she understand how lucky she was? She was going to be a mother. I wonder, has she ever considered what it would’ve been like to have been told that was something she’d never be?
‘Everything okay for you?’ I asked instead with false smile.
She looked at me and offered me a weak smile back. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her eyes were drawn back to the tea. I wondered what she saw reflected in it that made it so interesting.
‘Is this your first?’ I asked.
She blinked back at me. I nodded towards her stomach.
‘Yes. My first.’
‘Can be a wee bit scary, can’t it?’ I asked, hoping she’d engage. Open up a bit.
‘I suppose,’ she answered, her eyes darting back to the magic teacup in front of her once more. Clearly, she wasn’t the chatty type.
I wished her well but stayed close by. Cleaning the tables around her even though they were already clean. I made a mental note of her shopping, her handbag, the keys sitting at the top of it – anything that would help me to find out more about her.
I could hardly believe my luck when I heard a voice call to her. A man, tall, handsome. Her husband, maybe. He was as handsome as I’d hoped he’d be. Well dressed. Groomed. A hint of a tan. Healthy. A good genetic gene pool. He looked tired but he wore it well.
‘Here you are,’ I heard him say. ‘I was worried.’
I watched as he moved towards her, hugged her. I noted she didn’t hug him back. Just leaned her head in his direction.
I stayed close and Lady Luck rewarded me a second time. Her full name. He used her full name. A jokey comment about her giving him a heart attack. She addressed him by name in return – a jokey exchange despite how tired they both looked. I made a mental note of both and moved on to clean the other tables.
I knew who she was then. I knew who he was. It was all coming together perfectly.
More signs. More prayers being answered.
I knew this was His way of telling me I was on the right track. That if I just kept my faith in God, I’d get what I wanted. As the Bible promised, if I asked, I’d receive.

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_e32e5ebf-0ab9-52bf-aa04-00a74e70f25d)
Eli (#ulink_e32e5ebf-0ab9-52bf-aa04-00a74e70f25d)
I press the call button and wait for him to answer. It doesn’t take long. He sounds concerned, or is it guilty? I want to scream at him. I wish he was here so I could do just that.
‘You have to know I have nothing to do with any of this,’ he says. ‘I’ve no idea what that note is about. I swear, Eli, I’m not cheating. I’ve never cheated. You know that. This is someone trying to mess with us.’
I’m almost too tired to speak. ‘Martin, I think we need to talk about it. I think you need to come home. Please, come home.’
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll book flights as soon as we’re done talking. Get back as soon as I can. I swear, Eli, you have to believe me.’
I imagine he wants me to say that I do believe him. That’s it’s all laughable that my husband would ever cheat, and any time before the last seven months I would probably have said so. But things are different now. I’m different.
‘Look, I’m really tired. Just get home. We’ll talk about it then.’
‘Okay,’ he says. He sounds subdued. Then again, he would be, if he’d been caught. ‘I love you, Eliana,’ he says.
I tell him I love him, too, and saying the words almost breaks me. Might I have to stop loving him? I can’t even think of that.
*
‘You’re not seriously going to work today?’ My mother fusses around me, trying to persuade me just to eat something. So far, I’ve refused a cooked breakfast, porridge and a croissant. She’s now making some toast, which she’s told me I must eat at least half a slice of, dry if necessary.
‘Yes, Mum, I’m seriously going to work. I have to go to work. I don’t work somewhere where they can just call in someone else at half an hour’s notice.’
‘But don’t they have bank nurses they can call in?’
I shake my head. While of course they do, it’d be an increased cost to our already stretched budget and we’ve one patient at least on the ward who’s unlikely to make it through the day. I’ve been caring for him since his admission ten days before and I don’t want to cause a big upheaval for his family by suddenly adding someone new to the equation.
‘I’ll be fine. If it’s quiet, I’ll even grab an hour’s rest in the on-call room. The other staff will look after me.’
I take a bite out of the slice of toast she hands me as if to make a point. The truth is, I desperately want to go back to bed and wake up to find Martin home so we can talk. He’s texted to say he’s secured a flight into Belfast shortly after lunch. He should be home before dinner. He emphasised his innocence. Told me he loved me. I’d replied with a ‘See you then.’ I couldn’t bring myself to type more.
My mother doesn’t look happy at my decision. Nor is she happy that Martin isn’t already at our front door.
‘Surely there’s an earlier flight than lunchtime?’ she says before apologising. ‘Sorry, Eli, me getting cross won’t help. I just worry about you. I worry about you both. This is very upsetting.’
She says it like it should be news to me, even though I’m painfully aware of just how upsetting it is.
‘He’ll be here soon enough,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be at work anyway.’
‘I can’t say I approve, but you always were a stubborn one, Eliana Johnston.’
‘Hughes,’ I remind her. ‘Eliana Hughes.’
‘You’ll always be Eliana Johnston to me, my darling,’ she says.
She tells me she’ll stay, not go back to Belfast. She’ll deal with the SOCO people. I tell her to call the hospice directly if the police need more information. I’ll call back as soon as I get a minute.
‘I’ll call a glazier and get someone out to fix that window,’ she says. ‘It shouldn’t be too expensive. You don’t want to lose your good record with your insurance company.’
Ever practical, my mother. And good in a crisis – much better than I am, anyway.
My head is already thumping when I reach work. I’m rubbing my temples when Rachel walks into the nurses’ station and sits down beside me.
‘Tough night?’ she asks.
‘You’ve no idea. We had someone peg a rock through the window.’
Her eyes widen.
‘Seriously? At your house? Jesus, Eli, are you okay?’
I know I can tell Rachel everything if I want to. All about the rock, and the note and what the note said. She’ll be there for me. But for some reason I can’t face it. Not today. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want her looking at me with her sad eyes and inwardly welcoming me to her ditched wives’ club. Martin isn’t like her ex. Martin and I aren’t like they were.
So I nod. ‘I am, apart from this headache. But I’ll take a few paracetamol and get on with things. Can you give me fifteen minutes to pull myself together and I’ll get stuck in? Mr Connors, is he still …?’
‘With us? Yes, but his resps are slowing. The family are here. I think we need to make sure we’ve a nurse near them at all times. I sense of a bit of tension between two of the sons.’
Losing a parent is always tough, and we’re used to seeing emotions overspill, so I nod to Rachel. ‘I’ll keep a special eye.’
‘That’d be good,’ she says as I fish in my bag and pull out a packet of paracetamol. ‘Eli,’ she says as she makes to leave. ‘Are you sure it’s just a headache? I mean, with the stress and all? Do you want me to check your blood pressure? Have you any swelling in your feet or fingers?’
‘Rachel, I love you but it’s just a headache and I’m going to say this as nicely as I can. Can you stop fussing around me? I’ve had enough fuss for one day from my mother.’
I’m snappy and I can hear it in my voice. I don’t like it.
Rachel looks put out. She mutters something about only wanting to help and says she’ll leave me to it before turning on her heel and leaving. I swear under my breath and wish I’d started the whole day differently.
I fill a glass with water and take my tablets. Decide I need to get on with my work, where I’ll probably watch someone else die. That’ll be the least distressing part of my day.

CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_7622c8bd-c8b0-5be5-9342-75aa9ccf01d8)
Eli (#ulink_7622c8bd-c8b0-5be5-9342-75aa9ccf01d8)
Work always has the ability to take me away from everything. Even on days like today, when I’m existing after just a few hours’ sleep and trying to wrap my head around the notion that my husband might be cheating on me.
And that someone out there seems intent on doing whatever it takes to let me know about it.
I’m too busy to allow it anything more than fleeting space in my head. I have other people to care for. People to keep comfortable. An emergency respite admission for a young woman who has stage four breast cancer and can’t get any relief from her pain. Emotional support to offer to Mr Connor’s family to keep them from hitting out at one another as their grief rages.
I know how to do this job well.
There’s a comfort in that. There’s stress involved, of course, but it’s a good stress – an adrenaline buzz, but of the good kind.
There’s a huge sense of achievement that comes with making sure someone suffers as little as possible in their last hours and moments. It’s always sad, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I have cried and will cry for many of our patients and for their families, but I feel proud that I can make a horrific experience less so.
So, although I’m dead on my feet and my head’s still aching, I’m almost sorry when my shift ends. I’d happily have stayed on at work for another few hours if they’d let me, but Rachel is ushering me towards the door as soon as staff changeover is done.
‘I’ll be following you out of the door, so on you go. You’re exhausted and I can’t have you taking ill on my conscience. Try, if you can, to relax on your days off.’
I shrug and she gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You know where I am if you need me. The kids are still with their dad, so I’m a free agent.’
‘Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll have much more you could be doing than being bothered with my worries,’ I tell her.
‘You’re my friend, Eli. You and Martin both. I care about you.’
I feel bad for being snappy with her earlier, so I reach out for a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but thanks for listening.’
‘You’d do the same for me in return,’ she says before opening the door and giving me a gentle push outwards.
When I get into the car, I take my phone from my bag and see a series of messages from Martin, the last of which says his flight was delayed and is now due to land at Belfast just before six. He hopes to be able to make it home before 8.30 p.m. He’s going to call into the police station on his way home and speak to Constable Dawson.
For a moment or two I wonder whether we can just forget it all. Brush it all under the carpet. Can I live with knowing what I know?
I’m afraid to ask him about the allegations. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll have. If he continues to deny it, should I believe him? If he admits it, should I leave?
The thought hits me in the stomach with the force of the kick from my baby that follows. This is not how we planned it. This is not how it’s meant to be.
I know I’ll make it home before him by half an hour or so. I wonder whether to stop and pick up a takeaway on the way home, like I often do on a Saturday night. But this is hardly any normal Saturday night. I’m going home to ask him again, only this time directly, if he’s having an affair. I need to see his face as he answers me. See if I can tell if he’s lying.
I shake my head – I won’t pick up a takeaway. I won’t act as if everything’s normal when it so clearly isn’t. Everything feels sullied.
As I pull out of the hospice driveway and turn left towards the Foyle Bridge, I’m glad my mother’s at home. I imagine Martin won’t feel as glad, even though the pair of them have always got along well. He’s been made aware of my mother’s interrogation techniques from the stories I’ve regaled him with about my youth.
We’d rubbed along quite nicely together. I’ve never given her much trouble, not even as a teenager. But there were a few memorable occasions – some missing vodka from one of the bottles in her drinks’ cabinet, to name one where she went full bad cop on me. I wondered, would she go full bad cop on Martin? Or would she play the good cop role while I lost control of my temper?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_89ba66be-3bdb-53f1-99fc-f780d84575ea)
Eli (#ulink_89ba66be-3bdb-53f1-99fc-f780d84575ea)
When I get home I find that my mother’s cooked a full roast dinner with all the trimmings and she calls to me that it’s almost ready as I walk into the house. The window by the door’s been fixed. It’s almost as if nothing has happened, but of course it has.
‘Mum, I’ll not be able to eat this, lovely and all as it is,’ I say, trying not to make her feel rejected.
‘Just eat what you can, pet,’ she soothes. ‘You’re just skin and bone and that bump. I don’t know how that baby can be getting everything she needs with you eating so little.’
‘The baby’s fine. The baby’ll take whatever it needs from me, even if I don’t eat much. It leeches it from my system like a little, well, leech, I suppose.’
I watch my mother shudder. ‘That’s a horrible way to think about your baby,’ she scolds.
I don’t think so. I’m pragmatic about these things. Logical. Perhaps it’s my medical training. I look at things differently sometimes. In a detached fashion. The life inside me is a parasite of sorts, after all; not that I’d say that to my mother. She’d be apoplectic with rage at my use of such a word. Even if I qualified it by saying she was a very cute parasite. Even if I don’t reveal just how scared I am that I don’t feel that all-encompassing motherly love so many women talk about.
‘You know I don’t mean it in a bad way,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Let me go and freshen up. I won’t be long.’
Upstairs, I strip off my uniform and throw it in the laundry basket before having a quick shower. I still feel the need to look and feel more presentable for Martin.
I wonder if the police will have had any new information for him. Maybe I should’ve called myself and checked for updates. Asked if they were looking at any other leads. Mum’s told me that the SOCO team were very nice and understanding but not particularly forthcoming with any information about where the investigation was.
I brush my wet hair out and look at it hanging limply around my face. I need a haircut, I know that. I look in the mirror at the tired eyes looking back at me. They’ve been tired since I became pregnant. I’ve become pale and uninteresting. Could I blame him for looking elsewhere?
I jump when I hear the front door open and close. Hear his voice, muffled, call out a hello and my mother answer, telling him that I’m upstairs and will be down soon.
I sit for a moment, almost too afraid to move. I’m scared to see him.
Martin’s always told me that he knows me like no one else in the world knows me. I like to think I’m the same with him. I can read his facial expressions in seconds. I know the two-second pause that always happens when he’s caught out on a lie. Although, admittedly, in the past it’s been about trivial things, like spending too much money on some silly gadget we haven’t discussed or when some of the Maltesers I keep hidden in the back of the cupboard went missing. It has never before, in the ten-year history of our relationship, been about anything of any great seriousness.
My hand goes to my stomach, instinctively, I suppose. It still shocks me to find a bump there. To feel another being inside me. I glance back into the mirror, start to give myself a little pep talk, and I’m just turning to leave the room, when I hear him bound up the stairs. He always comes up the stairs two at a time like an excited teenager. Even when tired, he still gallops up. Before I know it he’s at the door, pushing the handle down and coming in, his face creased with concern.
‘Eli …’ he says as if he doesn’t know what to say next. Which he probably doesn’t. Life doesn’t prepare you for conversations like this.
I see his face and a mixture of every emotion possible rushes through me. Love. Fear. Betrayal.
‘You’re here,’ I state.
‘I am,’ he says, walking towards me.
I want to hug him. I want him to hold me, but I feel myself holding back.
He senses it. He looks wounded and I feel guilty, but I also feel torn. I shouldn’t be feeling guilty. I should be the one feeling wounded.
If it’s true.
‘I need to ask you to your face and I need you to understand why I’m asking. Are you seeing someone else?’ I blurt.
There’s no pause. Not even a minute one. The wounded look is multiplied. He sags.
‘You shouldn’t need to ask me that,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘But I do need to. For me. Are you having an affair, Martin?’
He takes a step back. Or maybe I do. I’m not sure.
‘Eli, I’ve told you, no. I’ve told you I never would. You can’t have believed it either, or you’d have mentioned that first note to me. It shouldn’t have been down to the police to tell me.’
‘It seemed so ridiculous at the time,’ I tell him, feeling defensive.
‘So what’s changed, Eli?’
‘Martin, someone threw a rock through our window in the middle of the night. They made specific allegations. They seem determined to make sure I know about it.’
He swears under his breath. ‘This is bullshit,’ he says.
I want so much to say ‘I know’ and to de-escalate this quickly. But I can’t.
‘I don’t know what to believe,’ I say.
‘You should. You should know me, Eli. You should trust me and trust us.’
I think back to when Rachel split from Ryan. How he’d told her the same thing. How she’d said she believed him out of a sense of duty until the evidence was so undeniable neither he nor she could deny their marriage was in tatters. She was so angry at herself that she’d let him fool her. Am I letting Martin, and my desire for us to be okay, fool me now?
But Martin isn’t Ryan. Martin’s one of the good ones – always has been.
He looks so genuinely wounded that I feel my heart lurch. I want to believe him. It’s easier to believe him. We’re about to have a baby, but I can’t ignore what’s happened. I doubt the person behind the notes would let me, either.
‘I want to believe you. I do … but … the rock through the window. Who does that, Martin? Who puts a rock through someone’s window? Especially ours. In the middle of nowhere. They had to drive down here and go to all that effort to make sure I saw it. Why would anyone do that if there wasn’t some truth in it?’
I’m sobbing now. Gulping down mouthfuls of air as my entire body aches with grief at it all.
‘And it’s not like things have been great between us, is it? Ever since this baby …’
‘Don’t start about the baby. We both wanted a baby, Eli. We tried so hard and so long to conceive this baby and yet, you seem unhappy. As if you regret it. This is our baby, Eli.’
I see tears well in his eyes, too. They look greener than ever. He looks so incredibly handsome in his anger and his grief, it makes it all harder.
‘I don’t regret it, but you don’t understand, Martin. It’s been hard. Being so sick all the time. You being away with work every five minutes. This isn’t how it’s meant to be. And I know, believe me, I know I’ve not been easy to live with, but that doesn’t excuse you having an affair.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m not seeing anyone else!’ He’s shouting now. Bellowing.
I’m aware of my mother’s footsteps on the oak stairs.
‘I don’t know if I can believe you,’ I say, and it’s out there in a way that I can’t take back. The trust between us dented.
‘Don’t you shout at my daughter.’ My mother’s voice cuts through. Steely. Ice-like. The voice she uses when it’s clear she’ll countenance no nonsense whatsoever. ‘She’s pregnant and exhausted and all this stress doesn’t help.’
He blinks at her. He’s not used to my mother telling him what to do.
‘I didn’t cheat on her, Angela,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how to get that through to her. To you both.’
‘You have to understand how this looks,’ she says, her voice softer now. ‘If it were reversed, wouldn’t you feel vulnerable? You weren’t here and what happened last night was terrifying.’ She shudders.
He sags again. ‘You’ve no idea how much I regret not being here last night, regret that you both went through that. But I don’t know how to prove that I’m telling the truth.’ He turns to me. ‘You can go through my things if you want, Eli. My phone, my computer, my bank statements and credit card statements. You can do whatever you need to reassure yourself that I’m telling the truth.’
For a moment I contemplate it, but it would just damage us more, wouldn’t it? It would show a complete lack of faith in him and us. I shake my head wearily.
I can see the exhaustion on Martin’s face, can feel what little energy I have left drain from my body. I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. A wave of nausea washes over me.
A hand is on my knee. I’m aware of someone in front of me. I don’t know if it’s my mum or Martin. I don’t know who I want it to be. I just want to get through the next minute without being sick.
‘Eli.’ His voice. Soft. Breaking. ‘I wish I could explain all this to you. But all I can do is tell you, and tell you again and again and as many times as you need to hear it, that this is all some sick fabrication.’
‘Are you okay, Eli?’ My mother’s voice cuts in.
I raise a hand to signal that I am, although of course I’m not. If I just have a little lie-down, maybe I’ll feel better. I pull myself back on the bed, rest my head on the pillow.
‘Just a moment,’ I say, ‘until the sickness passes.’
‘Have you taken your tablet?’ Martin asks.
I nod, my eyes closed. Concentrating on trying to feel well.
‘She gets sick if she’s stressed,’ I hear him say to my mother.
‘I know. None of this is good for her,’ my mother says as if I’m not in the room.
In that second I wish she wasn’t here. I wish that Martin would lie down on the bed beside me and we could talk about what’s really going on.
But maybe it’s all gone beyond that now. Things have been said. I’ve admitted I doubt him. I’ve admitted I’m struggling with this pregnancy. It’s all out of control.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#ulink_d0927b3d-7c7f-5089-a581-2f177379d902)
Louise (#ulink_d0927b3d-7c7f-5089-a581-2f177379d902)
Once I found my focus, it proved relatively easy to track them both down. That was the thing with living in that part of the world. Everyone knows everyone’s business and while that had been a curse to me as everything was falling apart, I could see that, as I put everything back together again, it was also a blessing.
It wasn’t hard to find out where they worked and, more importantly, where they lived. The leafy suburbs, of course. I should’ve known. They’d that look about them. Well-groomed, professional people. In a nice house, with loads of greenery nearby. Fields to run through. Streams to wade through. Trees to climb. I was sure they already had plans to build a tree house. I imagined they’d have a swing in that big garden. The perfect childhood awaited their perfect baby.
But money can’t buy love. There was nothing to say that just because they had a nice house in a nice area they’d be good parents. I watched them, you see. I saw how early he went to work. How he came back late.
She worked long hours, too. And they weren’t swamped with visitors. If I didn’t take this baby, who’d end up watching her? Would she just spend her days amusing herself on her state-of-the-art swing, with no one to push her? No one to feed her imagination. To have teddy bears’ picnics in the tree house with.
The house looked too well kept for finger-painting and messy play. Their routine too regimented. I saw it all. I saw her bring home takeaway dinners. Children need fresh, home-prepared food. It didn’t have to cost the earth. A lot of people make that mistake.
A child needs love and attention and to be nurtured and nourished. I had all the love in the world to give and so much more. Cruelty would’ve been leaving this baby with those people who’d never be home for her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#ulink_da6f2715-4907-5955-aeca-7f8b1caa788d)
Eli (#ulink_da6f2715-4907-5955-aeca-7f8b1caa788d)
Although the heating is on full blast, the atmosphere downstairs is frosty.
My mother carries a plate of mashed potato and gravy to the dining table, which she’s served for me, then she nods to Martin that he can help himself. She looks at me as he retreats to plate up his dinner and tilts her head to one side – international sign language for ‘Are you okay?’ I nod, shrug my shoulders and look at the food in front of me. I still don’t feel like eating.
‘Are you not eating, Mum?’ I ask as I sit down.
‘I’ll eat later,’ she says. ‘I think the stress of the last twenty-four hours is catching up with me. I feel done in.’
She does look tired. Pale even. She’s not elderly. She’s only sixty-two, but at times her vulnerability shows. I realise it’s been exceptionally selfish of me to leave her here all day to deal with SOCO and the glaziers on her own, even if she insisted she was more than okay to do so.
‘Oh, Mum, you’ve gone to all this effort.’
‘I can have some tomorrow for sure,’ she says. ‘Look, I’m going to take a cup of tea up to bed with me, if that’s okay. Give you young ones space to talk.’
‘You don’t have to go on our account,’ Martin says. ‘Look, Angela, I’m so sorry you’ve been caught up in all this. And I understand that your loyalty 100 per cent has to be to Eli, but I promised you a long time ago that I’d never hurt her and you have to believe me when I say that’s still true. I’ve decided I won’t go away again. Not while this is happening. Someone else can take over at work for a bit.’
I’m taken aback. This project is his. He won the bid, worked on it from the ground up. It’s nearly there and I know he wants to see it through to completion.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m all in,’ he says.
My mother nods, pulls her cardigan a little tighter around her.
‘This is between you two,’ she says. ‘I like to think I’m a good judge of character, Martin, and I’d very much like to believe you’re telling both of us the truth. Eli deserves only good things, and so does this baby. I know you young ones face different pressures these days, but the key is to keep working at it.’
‘We will,’ he says earnestly. ‘And I’ll be on to the police again and again until they find out who’s responsible. I won’t go away until all this is sorted. I won’t leave her vulnerable here alone again.’
She gives him one of her smiles. It’s a start.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#ulink_6bfcc65b-eff7-5eeb-aeb7-4368e473ee8f)
Eli (#ulink_6bfcc65b-eff7-5eeb-aeb7-4368e473ee8f)
Sunday brunch is usually a relaxed affair, but there’s an awkward silence as we sit around the table picking at the food Martin’s made for us. We’re all being perfectly polite to each other, but it feels scripted.
We’re all wounded and tired.
I sit peeling flaky pastry from a croissant I’m not going to eat while my mother nibbles at a piece of toast. Martin’s doing his best to tuck into his eggs and bacon, but everything feels off.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ My mother speaks and both Martin and I look at her. ‘Somebody somewhere is probably just jealous and trying to throw a spanner in the works. I think you have to trust in each other to put this right.’
Martin and I glance at each other.
‘Trust in each other,’ she says. ‘Listen to each other.’
She smiles and we smile back, tight, forced. It’ll take more than words to fix this.
‘I was thinking I might head back to Belfast today,’ she says. ‘Since Martin’s here. I’d say you two need your time alone. You certainly don’t need an old dear like me getting under your feet.’
‘Don’t feel you have to go,’ Martin says, but I know he’s already mentally packing her bags.
‘I don’t feel I have to, but I think it would be right to.’
I don’t know how I feel about that. It’s been nice to have her here – even if my entire world has been spinning out of control these last few days. I chide myself. I’m a grown woman, for the love of God. I shouldn’t be so pathetic. I force a smile onto my face.
‘Well, I suppose you want to get back to your evening classes and all and your work.’
‘Well, work is a good bit quieter these days. The need for me isn’t what it was before all those stupid accounting computer programmes,’ she says, ‘but I do have some stuff to catch up on. That said, Eli, you know that I’m here for you whenever you need me. And you too, Martin.’ That last bit sounds less convincing.
If the truth be told, I could do with them both being out of my hair to give me space to think about everything, but then again, I don’t want to be alone. I feel even more vulnerable now, in this house where people can break windows. I’ve never felt unsafe here before. I’ve thrived on the seclusion of our home, felt we were untouchable in many ways. Maybe I’m being punished by the karma gods for being smug.
Everything, except for work, is developing rough edges and I want to find and hit a pause button. I put the croissant, still untouched, back on my plate and get up. I need a little air, so I walk out onto our decking. The coldness of the morning forces an intake of breath and I pull my cardigan tightly around myself, over my bump, then cross my arms and walk across the deck to the edge of the lake.
It’s a crisp morning. There’s a glint of frost where the dew would normally twinkle. There’s something almost magical-looking about it. This dream house in a dream location. I let the cool air fill my lungs again and again until I feel two strong hands on my shoulders, the comfort of Martin’s presence behind me. I lean back into him.
‘What do you need me to do, Eli?’ he asks. ‘To fix this. Just tell me.’
‘If I knew who was behind these notes, I’d feel better. It’s the not knowing.’
‘I’ve been racking my brains but I can’t think of anyone who’d take against either of us. There are no aggrieved clients in my past as far as I know and you, well … it goes without saying, who could be angry enough at you to do something like this? It doesn’t make sense. I’m at a loss.’
He pulls me tighter. Kisses the top of my head. I try to react as I normally would, enjoy the intimacy, but something is cracked between us.
‘Look, I need to call Jim. Tell him to take over the London job going forwards. He’s expecting me back tonight, so I need to warn him to gen up for the presentation. Send him my notes, that kind of thing.’
I feel guilty. And worried. This is his pet project and my distrust is keeping him from seeing it through to the end. Am I being incredibly selfish? Will he end up resenting me over this? It could fracture things between us further. If I let him go, will he believe that I want to trust him, after all? Will it help to fix things between us? I’ve always been a peacemaker. A people-pleaser. I’ll tie myself up into tiny knots so as not to offend anyone.
‘Go to London,’ I say, my voice not more than a whisper.
‘What?’
‘Go to London. See this project through. I’ll ask Mum to stay.’
‘Eli, no. I don’t want you here alone until we know who’s behind this.’
‘I won’t be here alone. Mum’ll be here.’
‘And those notes, you do believe me, don’t you? If you need me to stay and work through this with you, I will.’
His green eyes are set on me. I hear his words but I know where his heart lies at the moment.
So I tie myself up into another little knot and I lie. I tell him I believe him. I tell him there will be time to work through it all properly when he gets back.
‘I swear, Eli. I swear on my life. I swear on our baby’s life, you’ve no reason not to trust me,’ he says.
‘Then go,’ I say.
A part of me is hoping he says no. Hopes that he’ll stay anyway. That part of me is soon disappointed. He kisses the top of my head again, tells me he loves me and darts off across the decking.
‘I’ll just confirm my travel arrangements then,’ he calls to the wind as he goes.
In the silence of the morning at the edge of the lake, not a person around to disturb me, I try not to feel hurt by the speed of his departure. I mentally try not to file it into the big paranoia folder in my head.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ulink_699133dd-4cba-5ac2-b960-db8c99c328d7)
Louise (#ulink_699133dd-4cba-5ac2-b960-db8c99c328d7)
I’ve thought about her husband a lot. That handsome man who hugged her in the café. Who joked with her and made her smile, even though she’d looked so lost before he arrived.
I knew his name. It ran through my head on a loop. I’d say it just to see how it sounded. I wrote it down then scribbled it out. I couldn’t risk leaving any connection, but I did feel a connection. He’d be the father of my child, after all.
I wanted to know as much about him as I could. What he did. What he liked. How he spent his free time. What books he read and what movies he watched. Was he excited about the baby his wife was carrying? The baby who’d be mine. Would he have been a hands-on kind of dad? Was he one of those ‘new men’ types – not afraid to change a nappy or push a pram?
I thought I might ask her a little about him when I next saw her. Slip it into the conversation casually. ‘Your husband must be excited?’ I’d ask. It’s possible she’d offer me something to go on. A little insight into his life and his personality.
He’d looked like a good man. Peter had been a good man. He’d been a good husband to me. He’d have made a brilliant father to our children, if life hadn’t been so cruel.
God never gives you any more than you can handle, I reminded myself. He must have thought I could handle an awful lot. Peter – he wasn’t up to God’s test.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_ce308d0b-06e7-5c71-a881-849940a1f079)
Eli (#ulink_ce308d0b-06e7-5c71-a881-849940a1f079)
My mother reacts just as I’d expect when I tell her Martin’s going back to London. She looks at me as if I’ve lost the plot, even though all along she’s been assuring me she doesn’t think there’s any truth in those horrible notes.
‘Are you sure you don’t want him to stay?’ she says. ‘Did he say something to you to influence you to let him go?’
‘No, Mum,’ I say. ‘I just realise if I trust him I have to prove that I trust him and this is one way to do that.’
‘Hmm.’ She eyes me. ‘He should be the one proving things to you, though.’
‘I think we both need to work on that and let the police work on finding out the truth of what’s going on.’
‘And being here, without him, while all this is going on? Are you not scared?’
I am, of course I am, but I don’t want to let whoever’s behind this win. I don’t want them to know they’re scaring me.
‘Sure, but I have you,’ I say with a forced smile. ‘Haven’t you always kept me safe? Haven’t you always told me that a mama bear protects her baby bears? You’ll stay with me, won’t you?’

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