Her Name Was Rose: The gripping psychological thriller you need to read this year

Her Name Was Rose: The gripping psychological thriller you need to read this year Claire Allan The USA Today bestseller‘AMAZING. I read it in one go. I was totally hooked.’ MARIAN KEYES‘Utterly addictive. Compulsive, twisty, tense.’ CLAIRE DOUGLAS, author of Local Girl MissingHer name was Rose. You watched her die. And her death has created a vacancy. When Emily lets a stranger step out in front of her, she never imagines that split second will change her life. But after Emily watches a car plough into the young mother – killing her instantly – she finds herself unable to move on.And then she makes a decision she can never take back.Because Rose had everything Emily had ever dreamed of. A beautiful, loving family, a great job and a stunning home. And now Rose’s husband misses his wife, and their son needs a mother. Why couldn’t Emily fill that space?But as Emily is about to discover, no one’s life is perfect … and not everything is as it seems.'A powerful and emotional psychological thriller that will keep you guessing and leave you breathless.' C. L. TAYLOR, author of The Fear‘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, author of The Guilty Wife‘A psychological thriller with a heart: 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, author of THE ONE CLAIRE ALLAN HER NAME WAS ROSE Copyright (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) Published by Avon, an imprint 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 2018 Copyright © Claire Allan 2018 Woman with Rose © Michelle Mackie / Arcangel 2018 Condensation © Henry Steadman Cover layout design © Avon 2018, design by Henry Steadman 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008275051 Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008275068 Version 2018-11-05 Praise for Claire Allan: (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) ‘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 ‘Mesmerizing to the point of complete distraction. I was totally engrossed in this book.’ Amanda Robson Dedication (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) To my parents, Peter and Karen Davidson, for all that you are, all that you do and all that you have taught me. Table of Contents Cover (#u0488a2d5-dfc8-5f4f-899e-067213fd79d9) Title Page (#u32dbc1b1-d70a-51f5-83ef-6abf2420ae5e) Copyright (#ua579b27e-4cc9-59f5-b7ce-e344db81f8be) Praise for Claire Allan: (#u565e6995-dfdb-50bf-8061-9160756bf34e) Dedication (#ud6d1ae5d-78eb-51fa-b532-eb7b8e2c7371) Chapter One (#ufc731f08-e77d-5c3a-b3c4-36fd9f1b1342) Chapter Two (#u27bfa254-9b42-5f3f-bfd9-28f893ed3ee8) Chapter Three (#u278e87b4-1a64-5f35-a1b4-75b93a4e6efe) Chapter Four (#u50d06945-79ff-52ed-8da3-650720396453) Chapter Five (#u86056733-d439-524f-9389-e496aeb541ca) Chapter Six (#ud2bcd173-464e-550b-a550-e50ed380f32b) Chapter Seven (#uc5627682-f5c9-5226-a512-0945a4d4909d) Chapter Eight (#uc439c7f9-e1c4-52dd-8fd2-8e1f82f23475) Chapter Nine (#u47c7b34c-cf01-5d74-97a6-7e0eab04fc35) Chapter Ten (#ue4927b84-dcb3-51e3-ad2a-089fea7e6dc3) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty–Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Book Club Questions (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) It should have been me. I should have been the one who was tossed in the air by the impact of a car that didn’t stop. ‘Like a ragdoll,’ the papers said. I had seen it. She wasn’t like a ragdoll. A ragdoll is soft, malleable even. This impact was not soft. There were no cushions. No graceful flight through the air. No softness. There was a scream of ‘look out!’ followed by the crunch of metal on flesh, on muscle, on bone, the squeal of tyres on tarmac, the screams of onlookers – disjointed words, tumbling together. The thump of my heart. A crying baby. At least the baby was crying. At least the baby was okay. The roar of the engine, screaming in too low a gear as the car sped off. Footsteps, thundering, running into the road. Cars screeching to a halt as they came across the scene. But it was the silence – amid all the noise – that was the loudest. Not a scream. Not a cry. Not a last gasp of breath. Just silence and stillness, and I swore she was looking at me. Accusing me. Blaming me. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I stood there as people around me swarmed to help her, not realising or accepting that she was beyond help. To lift the baby. To comfort him. To call an ambulance. To look in the direction in which the car sped off. Was it black? Not navy? Not dark grey? It was dirty. Tinted windows. Southern reg, maybe. It was hard to tell – muddied as it was so that the letters and numbers were obscured. No one got a picture of the car – but one man was filming the woman bleeding onto the street. He’d try and sell it to the newspapers later, or post it on Facebook. Because people would ‘like’ it. A child, perhaps eight years old, was screaming. Her cries piercing through all else. Her mother bundled her into her arms, hiding her eyes from the scene. But it was too late. What has been seen cannot be unseen. People around me did what needed to be done. But I just stood there – staring at her while she stared at me. Because it should have been me. I should be the one lying on the road, clouds of scarlet spreading around me on the tarmac. * I stood there for a few minutes – maybe less. It’s hard to tell. Everything went so slowly and so quickly and in my mind it all jumps around until I’m not sure what happened when and first and to whom. I moved when someone covered her – put a brown duffle coat over her head. I remember thinking it looked awful. It looked wrong. The coat looked like it had seen better days. She deserved better. But it broke our stare and an older lady with artificially blonde brassy hair gently took my arm and led me away from the footpath. ‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked. ‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ ‘I was just behind her,’ I muttered, still trying to see my way through the crowds. Sure that if I did, the coat would be lifted in a flourish of magic trickery and the lady would be gone. Someone would appear and shout it was an elaborate trick and the lovely woman – who just minutes before had been singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ to the cooing baby boy in the pram as we travelled down in the lift together – would appear and bow. But the brown coat stayed there and soon I could hear the distant wail of sirens. There’s no need to rush, I thought, she’s going nowhere. ‘I’ll get you a sweet tea,’ the brassy blonde said, leading me to the benches close to where the horror was still unfolding. It seemed absurd though. To sit drinking tea, while that woman lay dead only metres away. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need tea,’ I told her. ‘For the shock,’ the blonde said and I stared back blankly at her. This was more than shock though. This was guilt. This was a sense that the universe had messed up on some ginormous, stupid scale and that the Grim Reaper was going to get his P45 after this one. Mistaken identity was unforgivable. I looked around me. Fear piercing through the shock. There were so many people. So many faces. And the driver? Had I even seen him? Got a glimpse? Could it have been him? Or had he got someone else to do the dirty work, and he was standing somewhere, watching? It would be more like him to stand and observe, enjoy the destruction he had caused. Except he’d got it wrong. She’d walked out in front of me. I’d let her. I’d messed with his plan. I’d smiled at her and told her to ‘go ahead’ as the lift doors opened. She’d smiled back not knowing what she was walking towards. A paper cup of tea was wafted in front of me – weak, beige. A voice I didn’t recognise told me there were four sugars in it. Brassy Blonde sat down beside me and nodded, gesturing that I should take a sip. I didn’t want to. I knew if I did, I would taste. I would feel the warmth of it slide down my throat. I would smell the tea leaves. I would be reminded I was still here. ‘Let me take your bags from you,’ Brassy Blonde said. I realised I was gripping my handbag tightly, and in my other hand was the paper bag I had just been given in Boots when I’d picked up my prescription. Anxiety meds. I could use some now. My hands were clamped tight. I looked her in the eyes for the first time. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘My hands won’t work.’ ‘It’s the shock. Let me, pet,’ she said softly as she reached across and gently prised my hands open, sitting my bags on the bench beside me. She lifted the cup towards me, placed it in my right hand and helped me guide the cup to my mouth. The taste was disgustingly sweet, sickening even. I sipped what I could but the panic was rising inside me. The ambulance was there. Police too. I heard a woman crying. Lots of hushed voices. People pointing in the direction in which the car had sped off. As if their pointing would make it reappear. Beeps of car horns who didn’t realise something so catastrophic had held them up on their way to their meetings and appointments and coffees with friends. Faces, blurring. Familiar yet not. They couldn’t have been. The tightness started in my chest – that feeling that the air was being pushed from my lungs – and it radiated through my body until my stomach clenched and my head began to spin just a little. He could be watching me crumble and enjoying it. The noise became unbearable. Parents covering the eyes of children. Shop workers standing outside their automatic doors, hands over their mouths. I swear I could hear the shaking of their heads – the soft brush of hair on collars as they struggled to accept what they were seeing. Breathing – loud, deep. Was it my own? Shadows moving around me. Haunting me. I felt sick. ‘I have to go,’ I muttered – my voice tiny, distorted, far away – as much to myself as to Brassy Blonde, and I put down the teacup and lifted my bags. ‘You have to stay, pet,’ she said, a little too firmly. I took against her then. No, I wanted to scream. I don’t have to do anything except breathe – and right now, right here, that was becoming increasingly difficult. I glared at her instead, unable to find the words – any words. ‘You’re a witness, aren’t you? The police will want to talk to you?’ That made the panic rise in me more. Would they find out that it should have been me? Would I get the blame? Would I become a headline in a story – ‘lucky escape for local woman’ – and if so, what else would they find out about me? I couldn’t take that risk. I consoled myself that I probably couldn’t tell them anything new anyway. No, I didn’t want to talk to the police. I couldn’t talk to the police. The police had had quite enough of me once before. Chapter Two (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) A hit and run, they said. That was the official line. A joyrider, most likely. Joyrider is such a strange name for it, really. There was no joy here. The words of the police did little to comfort me. After I ran from Brassy Blonde, I checked the locks three times before bed, kept the curtains pulled on the windows of my flat and for those first 48 hours I didn’t go out or answer my phone. The only person I spoke to was my boss to tell him I was sick and wouldn’t be in. I didn’t even wait for him to answer. I just ended the call, crawled back into bed and took more of my anti-anxiety medication. I tried to rationalise my thoughts and fears in the way my counsellor had told me. A few years had passed since Ben had made his threat; five to be exact. Life had moved on. He had moved on. Moved to England, if my brother Simon was to be believed. Simon, who I secretly suspected believed Ben about everything that went wrong with us. Simon, who most definitely, did not believe that his former friend was waiting in the wings to destroy my life for a second time in his twisted form of revenge. ‘You’re letting him win every day,’ my counsellor had told me. ‘You’re giving him power he doesn’t deserve.’ But she didn’t know him. Not the way I did. I spent those two days in a ball in my bed, sleeping or at least trying to sleep, and compulsively checking Facebook to find out as much as I could about the woman who had died when it should have been me. There was no fairness to it. She had everything going for her while I, well, if I evaporated from this earth at this moment no one would really notice. Except perhaps for Andrew who would be waiting to give me a final written warning. I had to go to the funeral. I was drawn to it. I had to see the pain and let it wash over me – to salve my guilt perhaps or to torture myself further? See if she really was as loved as it seemed. I needed to remind myself just how spectacularly the gods had messed this one up. Perhaps I was a bit obsessed. It was hard not to be. The story of her death was everywhere and I had seen her life extinguished right in front of my eyes. Her eyes had stayed open – and they were there every time I closed mine. Her funeral was held at St. Mary’s Church in Creggan – a chapel that overlooked most of the city of Derry, down its steep hills towards the River Foyle before the city rises back up again in the Waterside. It’s a church scored in the history of Derry, where the funeral Mass of the Bloody Sunday dead had taken place. Thirteen coffins lined up side by side. On the day of Rose Grahame’s funeral, just one coffin lay at the top of the aisle. The sight stopped my breath as I sneaked in the side entrance, took a seat away from her friends and family. Hidden from view. All the attention focused on the life she’d led, full of happiness and devotion to her family and success in her career. I thought of how the mourners – the genuine ones dressed in bright colours (as Rose would have wanted) – had followed the coffin to the front of the church, gripping each other, holding each other up. I wondered what they would say if they knew what I knew. I allowed the echoes of the sobs that occasionally punctuated the quiet of the service to seep into my very bones. I recognised her husband, Cian; as he walked bowed and broken to the altar, I willed myself not to sob. Grief was etched in every line on his face. He looked so different from the pictures I had seen of him on Facebook. His eyes were almost as dead as Rose’s had been. He took every step as if it required Herculean effort. It probably did. His love for her seemed to be a love on that kind of scale. His grief would be too. He stood, cleared his throat, said her name and then stopped, head bowed, shoulders shaking. I felt my heart constrict. I willed someone – anyone – to go and stand with him. To hold his hand. To offer comfort. No one moved. It was as if everyone in the church was holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Enjoying the show. He took a breath, straightened himself, and spoke. ‘Rose was more than a headline. More than a tragic victim. She was my everything. My all. But even that isn’t enough. As a writer, you would think the words would come easily to me. I work with words every day – mould them and shape them to say what I need to say. But this time, my words have failed me. There are no words in existence to adequately describe how I’m feeling as I stand here in front of you, looking at a wooden box that holds the most precious gift life ever gave me. When a person dies young, we so often say they had so much more to give. This was true of Rose. She gave every day. We had so many dreams and plans.’ He faltered, looking down at the lectern, then to Rose’s coffin and back to the congregation. ‘We were trying for a baby. A brother or sister for Jack. We said that would make our happiness complete – and now, knowing it will never be, I wonder how life can be so cruel.’ He paused again, as if trying to find his words, but instead of speaking, he simply shook his head and walked, slowly, painfully, to his seat where he sat down and buried his head in his hands, the sound of his anguished sobs bouncing off the stone walls of the church. There was no rhyme or reason to it. No fairness in it. I tried to tell myself that Rose had just been spectacularly unlucky. I tried to comfort myself that on that day luck had, for once, in a kind of twisted turn of fate, been on my side. I needed to believe that – believe in chance and bad luck and not something more sinister. I had to believe the ghosts of my past weren’t still chasing me. I tried to tell myself life was trying to give me another chance – one that had been robbed from me five years before. It was fucked up. George Bailey got Clarence the angel to guide him to his second chance. I got Rose Grahame and her violent death. I got the sobs of the mutli-coloured mourners. And I got the guilt I had craved. It might have helped if I’d have found out Rose Grahame was a horrible person – although the way she sang to her baby and smiled her thank you to me as I let her go ahead of me out of the lift and into the cold street had already told me she was a decent sort. I wondered, selfishly, if this had been my funeral, would I have garnered such a crowd? I doubted it. My parents would be there, I supposed. My brothers and their partners. My two nieces probably wouldn’t. They were young. They wouldn’t understand. A few cousins, a few work colleagues there because they had to be. Some nosy neighbours. Aunts and uncles. Friends – maybe, although many of them had fallen by the wayside. Maud may travel over for it from the US, but it would depend on her bank balance and the cost of the flights. They would be suitably sad but they’d have full lives to go back to – busy lives, the kind of life Rose Grahame seemed to have had. The kind of life that allows you to pick up the pieces after a tragedy and move on, even if at times it feels as if you are walking through mud. The kind of lives with fulfilling jobs and hectic social calendars and children and hobbies. Not like my hermit-like existence. Five years is a long time to live alone. Of course, being at the funeral made me feel worse. I suppose I should have expected that. But I hadn’t expected to feel jealous of her. Jealous that her death had had such an impact. I crept from the pew, pushed past the crowds at the back of the church, past the gaggle of photographers from the local media waiting to catch an image of a family in breakdown, and walked as quickly as I could from the church grounds to my car, where I lit a cigarette, took my phone from my bag and logged into Facebook. Social media had become my obsession since the day of the accident. Once I had got home, and I had crawled under my duvet and tried to sleep to block out the thoughts of what I had just seen – what I had just done – I found myself unable to let it go. I didn’t sleep that day. I got up, I made coffee and I switched on my laptop. Sure enough the local news websites were reporting the accident. They were reporting a fatality – believed to be a woman in her thirties who was with her baby at the time. A hit and run. A dark-coloured car. The police were appealing for witnesses. The family were yet to be informed. The woman was ‘named locally’ as Rosie Grahame. No, it was Rose Grahame. Not Rosie. She was thirty-four. She was a receptionist at a busy dental practice. Scott’s in Shipquay Street. The child in the pram was her son – Jack, twenty months old. She was married. Believed to be the wife of local author, Cian Grahame, winner of the prestigious 2015 Simpson Literary Award for his third novel, From Darkness Comes Light. The news updated. Facebook went into overdrive. People giving details. Offering condolences. Sharing rumours. Suggesting a fund be set up to pay for the funeral and support baby Jack, despite the fact that, by all accounts, Cian Grahame was successful and clearly not in any great need of financial support. Pictures were shared. Rose Grahame – smiling, blonde, hair in one of those messy buns that actually take an age to get right. Sunglasses on her head. Kissing the pudgy cheek of an angelic-faced baby. A smiling husband beside her – tall, dark and handsome (of course). A bit stubbly but in a sexy way – not in a layabout-who-can’t-be-bothered-to-shave way. He was grinning at his wife and their son. It was all just an awful, awful tragedy. Someone tagged Rose Grahame into their comment saying, ‘Rose, I will miss you hun. Always smiling. Sleep well.’ As if Rose Grahame was going to read it just because it was on Facebook. Does heaven have Wi-Fi? Of course I clicked through to her profile. I wanted to know more about her – more than the snippets the news told me, more than the smile she gave me as I held the door to let her through, more than the gaunt stare she gave me as she lay dead on the ground, the colour literally draining from her. I expected her profile to be a bit of a closed book. So many are – privacy settings set to Fort Knox levels. But Rose clearly didn’t care about her privacy settings. Perhaps because her life was so gloriously happy that she wanted the whole world to know. I found myself studying her timeline for hours – scanning through her photo albums. She never seemed to be without a smile. Or without friends to keep her company. There she was, arms thrown around Cian on their wedding day. A simple flowing gown. A crown of roses. A beautiful outdoor affair. The whole thing looked as if it could be part of a brochure for hipster weddings. There she was, showing off her expanding baby bump – her two hands touching in front of her tummy to make the shape of a heart. Or standing with a paint roller in one hand, the requisite dab of paint on her nose, as she painted the walls of the soon-to-be nursery. There were nights out with friends, where she glowed and sparkled and all her friends glowed and sparkled too. Pictures of her smiling proudly with her husband as he held aloft his latest book. And then, of course, the baby came along. Pictures of her, perhaps a little tired-looking but happy all the same, cradling a tiny newborn, announcing his birth and letting the world know he was ‘the most perfect creature’ she had ever set her eyes on. Pictures of her bathing him, feeding him, playing with him, pushing him in his buggy, helping him mush his birthday cake with his chubby fists. Endless happy pictures. Endless posting of positive quotes about happiness and love and gratitude for her amazing husband and her beautiful son. The outpouring was unreal – I hit refresh time and time again, the page jumping with new comments. From friends. From family. From colleagues, old school friends, cousins, acquaintances, second cousins three times removed. And then, that night, at just after eleven – when I was considering switching off and trying to sleep once again, fuelled by sleeping tablets – a post popped up from Cian himself. My darling Rose, I can’t believe I will never hold you again. That you will never walk through this door again. You were and always will be the love of my life. My everything. My muse. Thank you for the happy years and for your final act of bravery in saving our Jack. I am broken, my darling, but I will do my best to carry on, for you and for Jack. I stared at it. Reread it until my eyes started to hurt, the letters began to blur. This declaration of love – saying what needed to be said so simply – made me wonder again how the gods had cocked it up so spectacularly. Poor Cian, I thought. Poor Jack. Poor all those friends and family members and colleagues and second cousins twenty times removed. They were all plunged into the worst grief imaginable. I felt like a voyeur and yet, I couldn’t bring myself to look away. So that was why, then, even outside the church, fag in my hand, smoke filling up my Mini, I clicked onto Facebook and loaded Rose’s page again. The messages continued. Posts directly on her timeline, or posts she had been tagged in. ‘Can’t believe we are laying this beautiful woman to rest today.’ ‘I will be wearing the brightest thing I can find to remember the brightest star in the sky.’ ‘Rose,’ Cian wrote. ‘Help me get through this, honey. I don’t know how.’ I looked to the chapel doors, to the pockets of people standing around. Heads bowed. Conversations whispered. A few sucking on cigarettes. I wondered how any of us got through anything? All the tragedies life throws at us. All the bumps in the road. Although, perhaps that was a bad choice of words. A black sense of humour, maybe. I’d needed it these past few years. Although sometimes I wondered if I used it too much. If it made me appear cold to others. Cian had changed his profile picture, I noticed. It was now a black and white image – Rose, head thrown back, mid laugh. Eyes bright. Laughter lines only adding to her beauty. She looked happy, vital, alive. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Wondered if I should wait until the funeral cort?ge left the chapel to make their way on that final short journey to the City Cemetery as a mark of respect. I could probably even follow them. Keep a distance. Watch them lay her to rest. Perhaps that would give me some sort of closure I took a long drag of my cigarette and looked back at my phone. Scrolled through Facebook one last time. A new notification caught my eye and I clicked on it. It was then that his face, his name, jumped out at me. Everything blurred. I was aware I wasn’t breathing, had dropped my cigarette. I think it was only the thought of it setting the car on fire around me that jolted me to action. I reached down, grabbed it, opened my car door and threw the cigarette into the street; at the same time sucking in deep lungfuls of air. I could feel a cold sweat prickle on the back of my neck. It had been five years since I had last seen him. And now? When my heart is sick with the notion that he could finally be making good on the promise he made to get back at me, he appears back in my life. A friend request from Ben Cullen. In a panic I looked around me – as the mourners started to file out of the chapel. I wondered was he among them. Had he been watching me all this time? I turned the key in the ignition and sped off, drove to work mindlessly where I sat in the car park and tried to stop myself from shaking. The urge to go home was strong. To go and hide under my duvet. I typed a quick email to my friend Maud. All I had to say was ‘Ben Cullen has sent me a friend request’. Maud would understand the rest. Andrew – my line manager in the grim call centre I spent my days in – wouldn’t understand though. He wouldn’t get my panic or why I felt the need to run home to the safety of my dark flat with its triple locks and pulled curtains. As it was, he thought I was at a dentist appointment. He had made it clear the leave would be unpaid and it had already been an hour and a half since I’d left the office. I was surprised he hadn’t called to check on me yet. If I were to call him to try and verbalise the fear that was literally eating me from the inside out, he not only wouldn’t understand, he would erupt. I was skating on perilously thin ice with him as it was. My two days’ absence after Rose’s death had been the icing on the cake. But my head hurt. I saw a couple of police officers in uniform as I drove and momentarily wondered whether to tell them Ben Cullen had sent me a friend request and I thought there might be a chance he was caught up in all this. Saying it in my head made me realise how implausible that would sound to an outsider; but not to me, I knew what he was capable of. I had to get away from here. I wanted to go home but I needed my job. Maybe I would be safer at work anyway? Desolate as it was, we had good security measures. I made sure all the doors on my car were locked and I drove on, the friend request sitting unanswered on my phone. Chapter Three (#u52be644c-75a0-5791-853b-2b25f1361e02) Rose 2007 Rose Maguire: is thinking this could be the start of something new! :) I knew – the minute I saw him – that there was a connection there. It wasn’t like a bolt of lightning or a burst of starlight, just a calmness that drew me to the dark and brooding figure sitting hunched over a table at the library, pen in hand, scribbling into a leather-bound notebook. A Styrofoam coffee cup at his side, his face was set in fierce concentration and I knew – even as I stood there returning the books I had borrowed – that he was going to mean something to me. Maybe my brain was a little too turned with the romantic novels I had been reading, but it felt right. It just felt like it was meant to be. I couldn’t help but look at him – wonder what had him scribbling so intently into that notebook. I clearly stared a little too long, or a little too hard, because when he looked up he caught me and stared straight back, his expression at first curious, serious even, then he smiled and it was as if I saw the real him. The strong jaw, the twinkling eyes, the slightly unkempt hair that was just messy enough. If Disney drew a modern prince, one who hung about in libraries looking intense and wearing checked shirts, they would do well to model him on the man in front of me. I should probably have looked away when he caught me staring. Ordinarily that’s exactly what I would have done – but something about him made me keep staring. I didn’t even blush. Not really – although I did feel a little flushed. I tilted my head to the side, smiled back. Flirtatious, I suppose. As soon as the librarian had scanned the books I was borrowing, I walked over to him. I never expected to find any sort of connection here of all places. The Central Library – close to work. A functional building that lacked any charm. It had the air of a doctor’s waiting room about it but as I approached him, and he stood up, I felt something in my core flip. I blushed then, of course, wondering if he could read my mind – see how my breath had quickened just a little at the sight of him. ‘Leaving?’ I asked him. ‘My coffee’s gone cold,’ he said, gesturing to the cup on the table. ‘I thought I’d nip out and get a fresh one. Want to join me? We could walk up to Java? They do great cappuccinos. You look like a cappuccino kind of a girl.’ ‘You’re right, and I’d love to,’ I said. ‘Good.’ He smiled before extending his hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Cian.’ ‘Rose,’ I replied. It wasn’t how I had thought my weekend would start. I had been planning on curling up on my sofa, throw over my knees, cup of tea in my hand and losing myself in the books I had borrowed. The last few weekends had been hectic – this one was for regrouping. Having time to myself. It didn’t work out that way. It started with two hours over coffee where we talked about all sorts of everything and nothing. He told me he was a writer, working on his first novel. I blushed a little when I told him I worked in a dental surgery – nowhere near as glamorous or creative as his job, but he smiled and said people would always want good teeth. I asked if I could read any of his work but he was shy, bowed his head. It wasn’t ready to be seen by anyone else yet. He wanted it to be more polished, he said. I knew it would be good though – he oozed a brooding intensity that no doubt came across in his writing. We left the coffee shop having exchanged phone numbers, and he sent me a text later that night asking if I wanted to meet him the following day – a picnic in St. Columb’s Park, just across the river, he suggested. The weather was to be lovely and he always felt more inspired outdoors. Giddy at the thought, I got up early and went to the Foyleside Shopping Centre to buy something that looked picnic casual but still a bit alluring. I showered, spent time making sure my hair was straightened to within an inch of its life, applied a ‘no make-up make-up’ look and made some pasta salad to take as my contribution along with a bottle of wine that had been chilling in my fridge. The picnic was everything I hoped it would be. We walked through the wooded pathways of the park, down as far as the riverbank away from the noise of the play park. He took my hand. We chatted. We sat beneath the dappled shade of the trees and he read some of his favourite poems to me – and even though poetry had never, ever been my thing, I found myself completely entranced by him. The emotion he found in the words – the way he made the lines that had always baffled me before suddenly make sense. He didn’t sneer when I asked a question – he answered. He asked about me too – about my life. My work. My friends. My family. The music I liked, the films I watched. He wasn’t ever going to be a huge Nora Ephron fan, he said – but he could see the appeal. After a glass of wine and some food (he said my pasta salad was delicious), when the afternoon sun had made us both feel a little sleepy, we lay side by side on the blanket listening to the sounds of families playing close by and the chatter of teenagers, feeling liberated by the sunshine. He took my hand and told me he’d had the best afternoon he’d had in a long time. I looked at him – there was something there – an expression I couldn’t read. I tried to find something to say, but before I could, he raised himself up on his elbow and leaned across, kissing me so tenderly I thought I might just float away. I know it sounds sickening, but it felt so right. So right that he came back to my flat and we kissed some more, and talked, and laughed and drifted in and out of sleep in each other’s arms until we couldn’t actually resist a proper sleep any longer and he followed me into my bedroom. We slept curled around each other until morning. It didn’t feel awkward or odd when we woke up. It didn’t even feel weird that we had spent the night in bed and hadn’t, you know, had sex. Not that I didn’t want to – but he said we should take our time. Enjoy the kissing stage, he said. The promise of it. It made me feel special. Cherished. Turned on. We spent Sunday watching old movies – one of my choices and one of his. Well, I say watching old movies, but that’s when most of the kissing took place. It was a wrench when he went home that night – and we had kept up our chatter through text messages, which turned into a phone call, that turned into a happy Facebook status just before I went to work. I knew I couldn’t wait to see him again. Chapter Four (#ulink_80042ef8-9bfa-5d14-93c0-69721bba5f39) Emily My heart was in my mouth all the way back to my office – a stark, concrete building on the main road out of the city towards Donegal with tinted glass in the windows lest any of us peek out of the window and see the world in all its true colour and wonder. I wanted to get there and to immerse myself in the routine of my day-to-day life to the point where I couldn’t think about everything else that was going. Rose, Ben, it was too much to take in. I thought of how I had passed the last five years sitting in my cubicle, in front of my computer screen, tapping on my keyboard, lost in a routine that suited but didn’t challenge me. It was all I could manage in the aftermath of him leaving. Somewhere I could sit and do my work, go home at five and be done with it until the following morning. It was boring. Soul destroying even. But it was safe. I wondered about Rose Grahame. Had she enjoyed her work? Had it fulfilled her or had it simply been somewhere she hid away from life? I couldn’t imagine she wanted to hide from anything. Colour marked her funeral, just as I imagine it marked her life. ‘All good?’ Andrew asked when I got into the office, before I had so much as hung my coat up. ‘Yes. Yes, fine,’ I lied. I missed Maud at that moment. Wished she was still here and I could drag her into the kitchen and weep on her shoulder and have her reassure me in the way only Maud could. ‘You were gone a long time. I wondered, did you need a few fillings? Or an extraction? Or perhaps an entire new set of teeth chiselled out of enamel there and then by Capuchin Monks or similar?’ Andrew was younger than me by a good eight or nine years. While in his mid-twenties, he still looked as if he only needed to shave once a week and even then, only with a fairly blunt razor just to make him feel more manly. Short in stature and slight, he favoured slim-fit clothes, which far from flattering his petite physique made him look like a child playing at being a grown up. ‘No. Nothing like that,’ I said before breaking eye contact and walking across the room to my desk and hoped he wouldn’t follow me. It had been hard enough trying to keep it together as it was without him being on my back. My desk was in a particularly bleak spot, devoid of any access to natural light. Management had a strict clear desk policy, with no personalisation of our cubicles allowed. It was supposed to increase productivity, but instead it just made each workspace feel cold and clinical. Like we were battery hens. I plugged myself into my computer terminal, watched the beeping light on my keyboard tell me a caller was waiting and wondered how long they would keep me chatting. Rose would be buried by now. Part of me wanted to go online and hunt through the pictures of the funeral. See more of her life. See if I could spot Ben among the mourners. A bigger part of me was terrified to look in case he was. And that friend request was still waiting. I felt a headache start to build behind my left eye, warning me that a migraine was on the way. I was, admittedly, less patient than usual with the man on the other end of the line who seemed unable to understand my most basic of requests. He was muttering madly, in a panic about how he didn’t know how to switch his router off, or even which piece of hardware his router was. It was one of those times when I felt angry. Frustrated. Cross at the mundane nature of people’s lives. How could they get flustered over broadband when a woman was dead? Killed. Wiped out. People could carry on even though the police hadn’t found her killer. When he was still out there. When he could be sending friend requests to ex-girlfriends on Facebook. Paranoid, I told myself. I was just being paranoid but as the man wittered on about what lights were and weren’t flashing on his finally located router I couldn’t stop thinking about Rose’s killer. I wondered if, as they ploughed into Rose, they had looked at the other people in the street? Had they seen me? Mouth agape? Eyes wide with fear and shock? The man on the phone barked something into my ear which pulled me from my thoughts. I apologised and asked him to repeat himself. ‘Oh you are still there then?’ he said, scorn dripping from every word. ‘I thought you’d gone for a nap, or maybe a holiday.’ ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ I repeated, trying to diffuse the situation. These calls were monitored and the last thing I needed was for this to end up in a training session at the end of the month. ‘You have my full attention now – let’s get this problem solved.’ Ten minutes later he was appeased and I was able to hang up the call and take a moment to rub my temples; to try and regain focus on what I was being paid to do. Thirty seconds, that was all it would take to check online for pictures. Then I could settle myself and get back to work. Properly. I picked up my phone, refreshed the internet app and happened upon a picture of the weeping relatives, their bright colours looking garish, standing at a graveside. Jack, thumb in mouth, being carried by an older woman wearing a bright pink coat who looked as though she was resisting the urge to hurl herself into the grave. Cian – ashen faced – was captured tossing a cream rose into the hole in the ground that now contained his wife. She was gone. It was done. But looking at the faces of the mourners, I realised it was just beginning for them. * I had put my phone away and answered another call when I saw Andrew walk over towards my soulless desk. He was trying his very best to look intense and managerial, but the unmistakable glint in his eyes implied he was about to impart news that made him feel important. He stood a little too close while he waited for me to finish the call I was on, and just as I was about to answer the next call waiting in the queue, he lifted the headphones from my ears and forced himself into my direct eyeline. ‘A word?’ he said, head tilted to the side. ‘Any word or had you something particular in mind?’ I said, a weak attempt at a joke. As feared, it went right over his head and he looked at me as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. A human Rubik’s Cube. ‘My office?’ he said, an eyebrow raised. He led the way. A bad feeling washed over me. Nothing good ever, ever happened in Andrew’s office. Still a part of me lived in hope he was going to break the company-wide tradition of demoralising and humiliating staff and offer me a pay rise or a promotion or both. ‘Close the door,’ he said as he took his seat behind his desk. He probably imagined he looked foreboding – but he didn’t. He was too small, too fine a creature, too weedy to intimidate me. I wondered whether his mother still took his trousers up for him. ‘Sit down,’ he said, and I did, straightening my skirt and taking a deep breath. I looked at him. ‘So the dentist?’ he said. I shrugged, unsure what he wanted me to say. ‘You were there this morning?’ I nodded. ‘I told you that, and I took unpaid leave.’ ‘Is your dentist a very Godly person?’ he asked, and I was sure I could see the hint of a sneer. ‘I can’t say we’ve discussed theology,’ I replied. Tone light. Not rattled. ‘Well, it’s just you seem to have been in church this morning, so I wondered was your dentist moonlighting as a priest? Confession and tooth removal a speciality?’ A wave of dread shot right to the pit of my stomach. I willed myself to think fast. ‘Who? What? I don’t know … what?’ I stumbled, feeling the heat rise in my face as my cheeks blushed red. He turned his computer screen towards me, and I saw my image frozen in pixels, creeping from the church ahead of the mourners. Looking shifty. Ducking out of view – but clearly not enough. ‘I had to go to the funeral,’ I stuttered, ‘and I knew the company policy about compassionate leave being only for immediate family. I took unpaid leave. It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ That was clearly the wrong thing to say. ‘Of course it matters. We have targets to hit and you took time off on the premise of a medical issue and instead you were getting a nosy at the big funeral of the year. Did you even know her?’ ‘It’s not like that,’ I said. The blush in my cheeks was now so hot, I could almost hear the roar of the blood rushing to my face. ‘I saw it. I saw the accident. I was a witness. I had to go. I had to get closure.’ The words were spilling out. My hands were shaking – maybe not enough for Andrew to see but I could feel them jittering as I tried to get enough air into my lungs between my short, sharp sentences. I willed the panic not to take hold. I saw Andrew shake his head. Heard him sigh. I wanted to scream at him. ‘You know we can’t carry dead weight here, Emily. We’ve talked before about this. About your attendance. About your attitude to being here and being part of the team. You’ve had enough warnings. We can’t keep giving you chances. And lying to management? That constitutes gross misconduct.’ I stared at him. ‘But I had to go. Don’t you understand?’ He shook his head again. I wanted to grab him and shake the rest of his weak, puny body along with his stupid head. ‘And you never mentioned it before now? Really? You want me to believe that?’ He snorted. A short, derisory laugh that made the room spin a little more. All sense of balance, of calm, was leaving me. ‘Regardless, Emily, you know that it’s not good enough. I have no choice but to dismiss you with immediate effect. You’ve had more chances than most. More chances than you deserve, if I’m being honest. I am very sorry it’s come to this but really, you have no one to blame but yourself.’ He sat back in his seat, either oblivious to or unmoved by my growing distress. I tried to find the words to reply, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. ‘No one to blame but yourself’ reverberated wildly around my head. Blame. It was all down to me. It was always all down to me. Isn’t that what Ben had always said? That I brought things on myself? Then and now – it was a fault I couldn’t escape. I could hear a faint humming; he was talking again. Muttering about clearing out my desk and leaving immediately. HR would be in touch. He hoped I wouldn’t make a scene. ‘Don’t make it worse for yourself,’ he said, head tilted to the side. False compassion that made me want to cry more than any true compassion would have. I felt my nails dig into my palms – the sharp, scratchy sensation at least making me feel grounded in the room that was becoming increasingly stifling. I willed myself to get up, to remember the breathing techniques I had learned in hospital. I willed my tongue to loosen – to tell him to go straight to hell. I willed myself to turn sharply on my mid-heeled court shoe and slam his office door behind me. But my legs were like jelly. No one to blame but yourself. I stood up, using the back of the chair for leverage. I was vaguely aware that Andrew was still talking but I couldn’t hear. All I could hear was the humiliation pounding through my veins. Sacked. At thirty-four. With rent to pay on a flat I didn’t even like that much and credit card bills that were already a struggle. No one to blame but myself. And Rose, I suppose. For taking my place. For walking in front of me and getting hit by the fucking Toyota Avensis. But I had let her, hadn’t I? I had smiled at her beautiful curly-haired baby and, touched by her cooing and singing and the baby’s toothy grin, I had said: ‘Mothers and children first’ and let her walk through the door before me. No one to blame but myself. I could have stayed and talked to the police. Had some sort of proof to show Andrew I had been there. But I had bolted. Like I wanted to bolt now. Or faint. Or throw up. React in any of the ways one would normally react to a shock. At least, I thought, as I shovelled the contents of my desk drawer into my handbag without making eye contact with anyone else in the office, the company’s bleak clean desk policy meant I didn’t have much to pack up. A Cup–a–Soup that was long out of date. A mug with our faded company logo on it. A strip of paracetamol. A strip of Buspirone (my anti-anxiety medication, rarely used at work but a safety net in case a panic attack crept in, as they were prone to do, with no warning). A couple of faded business cards. Forty-seven pence in loose change. Three paper clips, two salt sachets and a torn, half-empty pepper sachet, spilling its dusty brown contents in my drawer. A button from a long-forgotten clothing item. Two pens. Not much of a life. I popped two Buspirone from the packet and threw them back with a mouthful of water. They would knock me a little silly – take the edge off. Probably shouldn’t drive though. Wouldn’t be safe. Wouldn’t be right. And we all know how driving dangerously ends, don’t we? Might as well have a drink, I thought. End the day on a big fat high of having no one to blame but myself. Chapter Five (#ulink_885f0749-c4a8-5fa0-a41c-c76cd5892ec6) I missed the smell of smoke in pubs. The comforting mix of stale smoke mixed with stale alcohol was a signal to the senses that they were about to be soothed. Now I had to buy my drink and stand outside, hopping from foot to foot, cradling my drink to me in a bid to keep warm while I sucked on my cigarette. Vodka was the drink of the day. I hadn’t had it in a while – but desperate times called for desperate measures. Lots of 35ml measures of impending oblivion. Jim, the barman, had looked at me oddly when I walked in from the bright winter sunshine to the cosy gloominess of Jack’s Bar, just a short walk from my flat on Northland Road. ‘Early doors today?’ he asked as I took a seat at the bar. I looked at him quizzically. ‘Is it not early to be knocking off work? Time off for good behaviour, eh? Teacher’s pet?’ I couldn’t help but snort at the irony of the words. ‘Yes, something like that,’ I said. ‘Double vodka and a Diet Coke.’ He raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak, just lifted a glass and carried it to the optic where I stared as the numbing clear liquid poured out. ‘The hard stuff, eh?’ he asked, as he added ice and popped open a small bottle of Diet Coke. He didn’t pour it. I imagined he knew as well as I did that the soft drink was really only for show. I would add a splash; enough to colour the vodka but not enough to dilute its potency. ‘Hard to beat,’ I said, raising my glass before tipping it back, allowing the sharp taste of the alcohol to warm my throat and sink to my stomach where it would settle the growing sense of unease. ‘I thought you were going off the booze for a bit?’ Jim asked, as I pushed the glass, now empty, towards him and gestured for a refill. ‘I did,’ I said. ‘It’s been a few weeks.’ I knew as well as he did that it had been just over a week, but he didn’t correct me. ‘Are you sure you want another? It’s still early and last time you were in you told me—’ ‘Never mind what I told you,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my tone light when all I really wanted was for him to pour me another drink. ‘Look, Jim. You can pour me another drink – and maybe even another after that – or I can take my business elsewhere. But if I’m honest, I like it here. It’s quiet and most of the time you’re not a pain in the ass.’ Jim shrugged and poured my drink. To try and make him feel a little better I added more than just a splash of my Diet Coke to the glass and nodded towards the beer garden, where I headed with my drink and my smokes to imbibe nicotine along with the alcohol. I knew I shouldn’t be drinking. Of course I did. Not least because of the double dose of anti-anxiety meds dissolved in my system. Ones that came with a big ‘Do Not Consume Alcohol’ warning on the front. But the alternative was not appealing. Go home to my flat in the half-light of the afternoon, work out just how many weeks’ rent I could afford to pay before I was officially broke. Broke and homeless. With a mild drink problem, an addiction to prescription medication, in hiding from a man who wanted to cause me actual physical harm and nursing a very heavy dose of guilt about the death of Rose Grahame. Standing shivering in the beer garden beside a plant pot festooned with cigarette butts and some fairy lights that no longer twinkled, I felt the first wave of negative feelings towards Rose and her perfect life. Had she not the sense she was born with? The sense to look both ways before crossing the road? She was pushing her baby in a pram for the love of God. If she had just looked up I wouldn’t be tormented by the abnormal angle of her neck and her left leg when she fell. I would be able to escape that glassy-eyed stare. I wouldn’t have felt compelled to go to the funeral and I wouldn’t have had to lie to Andrew and I wouldn’t now be unemployed and feeling slightly fuzzy headed as the last dregs of my vodka and Diet Coke slid down my throat. I’d have one more – and then go home. I stubbed out my cigarette, left it teetering on the pile of butts on the plant pot – all playing a dystopian version of Buckaroo, and walked back into the bar. I pushed my glass in Jim’s direction and he shook his head but poured another double measure anyway. ‘I’ll get you a toastie made. Some soakage,’ he said, but I shook my head. ‘I’ve dinner plans,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be good,’ I lied again. He walked away, knew he was beat. I poured the remainder of my Diet Coke into my vodka glass and took out my phone, clicking back into Facebook. I stared at the dialogue box asking me ‘What’s on your mind?’ – it had been just over five years since I had shared what was on my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to delete my account. I hadn’t always been so reticent to share what I was thinking, of course. I used to share everything. My life on view for whoever wanted to see it and even a few people who didn’t. When things were better, of course. Or at least when I thought they were better. The fool that I was. * My keys clattered onto the floor as I kicked the pile of letters away from the door and stumbled into my flat, wondering who had moved the light switch a few inches to the left. I had been true to my word. I had left after my third drink (that it was a double wasn’t important). Now though, stumbling towards the moving light switch and feeling my stomach – empty but for the alcohol – churn, I decided I’d had a little too much. I needed to sit down and try to stop the room from spinning. My head had started to hurt. I knew I needed a glass of water and a few painkillers, so I made my way to the kitchen and pulled out a packet of pills, taking two small yellow and green Tramadol capsules out and throwing them back with water from the tap. I didn’t need painkillers this strong any more; they were given to me for backache a few months ago. I probably should have returned the remainder to the chemist, but I liked how they made me feel. Not only would they sort out my headache, they would knock me into the oblivion I desired – the kind of oblivion where, if I was lucky, I would dream of happy endings and nice things. An escape from my reality and of the face of Ben Cullen that haunted my notifications. Perhaps dreams of a sexy, stubbly husband called Cian, and a chubby cheeked baby called Jack and a life where I felt I had something to contribute to Facebook after all. A life worth mourning. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the sofa, pulling a blue chenille throw over me and drifting off into a hazy sleep. I was woken with a start at 2.37am, my blurred eyes trying to focus on the shadows drifting across the room, cast by a car driving by. In my half asleep, slightly drunk, Tramadol-induced state, I was sure I saw her, standing, head still twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes glazed, blood dripping from her hands. But smiling – because life was perfect. Because even dead, it was still better than mine. My heart froze, I pulled the blanket over my head and concentrated on trying to steady my breathing, aware of the thumping of my heart in my chest, trying to chase away the ghosts of the sound of the car crunching into her, the noise and the screams of those around her. For the first time I heard my own scream join the m?l?e. Had I screamed that day? I didn’t know any more. I woke again when it was just getting light and my phone was beeping incessantly. I glanced at the low battery warning, and spotted five missed calls and six text message notifications. Rubbing my eyes and spreading the dregs of yesterday’s mascara across my dry skin, I tried to focus on the screen. The missed calls were, all but one, from my friend Maud. The other was from Andrew; I gave my phone the finger at seeing his name. I scrolled down my messages. Five from Maud, panic increasing in each of them. Ben Cullen? WTF? Called work. You’re not there? Kieran said you were let go. WTF happened? Tried calling you. You’re not answering. Emily, call me. I’m really worried. ANSWER YOUR PHONE. The one from Andrew was a simple: HR would like to see you on Monday morning. 10am. I swung my feet around and stood up, fighting the nausea in the pit of my stomach. I wandered to the bathroom, used the loo, splashed cold water on my face and pulled my hair back in a loose ponytail. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was a fetching shade of grey, dark circles under my eyes. I gulped water directly from the tap and brushed my teeth before going back to my bedroom and peeling off my clothes from the day before. I pulled on some tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt and a pair of mismatched socks and walked through to my kitchen where I made toast (after cutting the slightly mouldy corner off the bread) and a mug of tea before walking back into my living room, sitting cross-legged on the sofa and calling Maud. The phone rang twice before she answered, her voice thick with sleep. Remembering it was only 3am in New York – I immediately apologised for waking her. ‘Jesus, Emily. I’ve been worried to death. Ben? And then you going off grid? And work? What the hell is going on?’ Maud could be confidently called my one true friend. And Andrew’s predecessor at the call centre. She’d taken me under her wing when I started at CallSolutions. I liked to think she saw something fixable or loveable in me; but whatever the reason, she helped me find my feet again. She kept me (just) on the right side of the company’s many policies. The day, 17 months earlier, she announced she was moving to the States to head up the opening of a new call centre for our multinational company was the day my time with CallSolutions started to slide towards the inevitability that one day I would end up eating stale toast and wondering where it had all gone wrong. ‘I went to Rose’s funeral. Told Andrew I was going to a dental appointment. He fired me.’ I heard her sigh. ‘Jesus, Emily. Was that wise? To go to her funeral? And to lie about it?’ Ignoring her question as to whether I should’ve gone to the funeral, I told her I had lied to Andrew because he wouldn’t understand why I needed to go. If Maud couldn’t understand it, there was no way Andrew would. Her sigh was heavier this time. Before I’d told Andrew, Maud had been the only person who knew I had seen the accident – she had told me to look into counselling, or at least talk to my GP if I felt my mood slipping or my anxiety growing. Actually, she had made me promise I would talk to my GP and look into counselling. ‘He would have understood, if you’d told him. You know that. Anyone would have understood. You witnessed a major trauma,’ she said, cutting through my thoughts. I shook my head. ‘I didn’t want him to know. I don’t want anyone to know. They’ll make me go over it all again, or talk to the police …’ ‘And Ben, how does he come into all this?’ ‘He sent me a friend request, I told you that.’ ‘Did you accept it?’ she asked. ‘No, of course not,’ I almost shouted, without letting her know it was still sitting ignored in my account. ‘So just ignore him. Leave it at that. Nothing to worry about.’ She sounded so sure that I wondered was I overreacting or simply going mad? ‘But what if he wants back in my life?’ I asked her, omitting the fact that I feared he already was and that he might be tied up in the whole Rose situation. I knew what she would say. She would rationalise it to nth degree – but little about Ben Cullen was ever rational. He was just one more big reason why I couldn’t and wouldn’t go to the police myself. They had been so firmly on his side before – willing to believe whatever he told them. Everyone believed Ben over me. Everyone. I couldn’t go through being made to feel like a liar again. ‘Do you want me to talk to Andrew?’ Maud interrupted my thoughts. ‘Perhaps I can persuade him to give you one last chance? Although, he has given you enough chances before.’ Her tone was soft, but I still felt the judgement in her words. Yes, he had given me chances but then any other decent boss – like Maud had been – wouldn’t have made such a big issue over such little infractions anyway. ‘God no. No, it’ll be fine. I’ll get another job. It will work out. It was probably about time for a change anyway. It’s not been the same since you left,’ I said with more confidence than I felt. ‘Hmmm,’ Maud replied. ‘Well maybe this is the kick up the bum you need? And I say that with love in my heart. You can do so much with your life, Emily. You need to go out there and grab it by the balls. Maybe you were too comfortable in CallSolutions. It didn’t challenge you. It was easy – which is what you needed at the time, but comfortable isn’t rewarding, is it?’ I stifled a laugh. I was never comfortable in CallSolutions – not really comfortable. I found most days unbearably dull and I lived with the constant feeling of being the odd one out. The co-worker who was never invited for Friday drinks, or Saturday nights out and who wasn’t even invited to be part of the Lottery Syndicate. But Maud was right – it didn’t challenge me in any way. It had been a safe place when I needed to feel safe. Now, even though I still needed medication to switch my mind off at night and help me sleep, I needed more than safe. ‘What could I do?’ I asked. I heard Maud yawn. ‘I don’t know, honey. But you could try your hand at anything. Get online – see what’s on offer.’ Then she stifled a laugh. ‘Oh I’m going to hell for saying this, but I’m pretty sure there’s a post for a dentist’s receptionist that’s just been made available?’ I laughed back, said my goodbyes, told Maud I was sorry for waking her and for worrying her. ‘Don’t apologise, Emily. And most of all try not to worry about Ben. It was a long time ago. Everything got a bit out of hand back then. Maybe he just wants to say sorry? Now, try to keep calm and carry on, as the saying goes. You’ve got this. This is your new start.’ I ended the call and sat on the sofa, the tea going cold at my feet, and wondered if this was all some strange karmic intervention. Maybe I was meant to see Rose die so that I could move on to a job where I would be happy and fulfilled, and where everyone would be lovely and friendly and supportive? Maybe Maud was right – she always could talk me down. Ben may just, finally, be saying sorry. That this apology came at the same time as Rose’s death was more than likely just a twisted coincidence. I chided myself for being so paranoid. Thought about my options. There really wasn’t anything to stop me from applying for Rose’s job, was there? In fact, given that Derry ranked among the top three unemployment blackspots in the UK, it was probably wise that I did. I had experience in customer care. I had, years ago, gained all my admin qualifications. I could answer phones with cheeriness – even when people were being complete pains in the ass. I could do it. I knew I could. And even if contemplating taking over a dead woman’s life – or a facet of it – was a tad morbid, it wasn’t as if she had use for it any more. Chapter Six (#ulink_969e2eac-3964-5c4d-8bf8-56541f65c299) Scott’s Dental Practice operated out of shiny bright offices on Shipquay Street, one of the city’s main thoroughfares. The old Georgian fa?ade had been updated – it was now glass fronted and everything inside was decorated in soft white tones, from the comfy sofas to the reception desk and the calla lilies in their clear glass vases on every table. With light marble floors and soft music piped through the room, it felt more like a hotel lobby than a dentist’s waiting room. Except, that is, for the unmistakable smell of dentists – a kind of minty disinfectant smell mixed with sheer fear. I’d had my hair done that morning. Asked the hairdresser to slip a few blonde highlights into my otherwise mousy brown hair. I had spent money I could ill afford on a nice suit – a pencil skirt, blazer and a soft silk blouse – which I wore with a classic pair of nude patent heels. I had taken extra time applying my make-up. I had seen enough pictures of Rose Grahame and her colleagues to see that they were all the well-groomed type. Contoured, plucked and preened – and of course with glistening white smiles – they looked as if they spent their days in the boutiques of Milan rather than in a busy dental surgery, answering phones, making appointments and staring down the throats of countless patients. If I was to fit in – and I wanted to fit in – I had to look the part. I had to be Rose, mark II. And I wanted to be Rose, mark II. Although it had been three weeks since her funeral, I had not yet beaten my addiction to her Facebook page. People hadn’t stopped posting on it – even though she had been laid to rest and the news columns had largely moved on. Except for the occasional appeal for information about the car’s driver, Rose Grahame’s tragic demise had become yesterday’s news. Except to those who loved her. People still shared pictures. They still expressed their shock. They still wrote about how they missed her. Cian posted almost every day – pictures, love quotes, messages that would take tears from a stone. Sometimes he sounded so utterly lost that I found myself wondering if anyone was there just to give him a hug and tell him that it was going to be okay. Sometimes he sounded angry – not at Rose of course – but at the injustice of the situation. At other times there was an underlying fatigue behind his words, as if he was tired of waking up every morning and realising, once again, that she was gone and not coming back. I read every word. Facebook had become my window on the outside world – a world I was starting to feel like I could become a part of again. Ben’s Facebook request still sat in my inbox but it didn’t scare me the way it had. I’d heard nothing more from him and reassured myself that all reports still had him living in England. I reminded myself what my counsellor had said to me over and over – to deal with the facts and not catastrophise every situation. So I focused on what I knew. I lost myself in what decent men were like. Men like Cian, who wasn’t afraid to share his vulnerability and grief. His posts garnered him a host of responses, ‘likes’ and words of comfort. I hoped he listened to them and I hoped they helped. I wondered how the girls at Scott’s Dental Practice felt, as I was waiting for my job interview. Were they too still wading through the metaphorical mud of each day, trying to make sense of their grief? Certainly, the bright (dazzling, definitely paid for) smiles on the faces of the two ladies at reception would con a person into thinking no sadness had ever visited them in their lives. But it was when I was brought through to a small staff kitchen and offered a cup of coffee while I waited for Owen Scott that I saw evidence of a workplace in mourning. On a small table by another white wall sat a framed picture of Rose, a candle lit in front of it along with a small posy of flowers. The receptionist who had let me through the kitchen must have spotted that I was gawping at the picture. ‘That’s Rose,’ she said. ‘She died a few weeks back. She left very big shoes to fill.’ The receptionist sniffed slightly. I put her in her mid-forties; her auburn hair was swept back in a glossy ponytail, make-up perfect, dressed in her white tunic and trousers, which helped show off her perfectly applied fake tan. I could see her eyes filling. I tried to think of something to say but I was caught in the moment of looking at the picture of Rose, here in her workplace where her presence and her absence could be keenly felt. ‘I read about that,’ I stuttered. ‘It was awful.’ I decided not to tell her I had actually witnessed the moment the life had been knocked right out of her on the cold tarmac. I watched a tear slide down her cheek, leaving a trail through her foundation. She reached in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes with it. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m giving you a really bad impression. We knew today would be tough – having people in interviewing for her post. We wanted to wait a bit longer but we’re busy and we can’t afford any downtime. You must think I’m an awful bitch – all that big shoes to fill stuff.’ I shook my head. I didn’t think she was a bitch. I knew Rose Grahame wasn’t far from sainthood. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, rubbing her arm. ‘It must be very hard.’ The woman nodded. ‘I’m Donna,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. Thanks for your understanding.’ My mind whirled. Donna. Probably Donna O’Connor, who posted on Rose’s Facebook to say that no day would ever be the same without her smile. I didn’t have a visual to go by – as almost all of Rose’s friends had since changed their profile picture to one of their deceased pal in some bizarre act of solidarity. ‘Were you very close?’ I asked. Donna laughed, then sniffed back more tears. ‘We were the closest. I called her my work wife. She was the person I could always go to when I had a tough day, or was tired, or the kids had kept me up all night and I was on my last nerve.’ ‘It must be so hard,’ I soothed, watching this perfectly put together woman unravel in front of me. ‘I can’t imagine,’ I lied, because I had clearly spent much of the last three weeks imagining. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, taking a long, shuddering breath to settle herself. ‘You don’t think things like this actually happen. You hear of it, but you don’t think it will happen to someone you know. It’s just wrong. Everything about it is wrong.’ Did it make me a bad person that as I watched this woman deal with her grief in front of me, my primary thought was that here was a woman who could use a friend and I could be that friend to her? I could walk in here and work with someone who had already confided in me, who I had seen at her most vulnerable, and we could bond. Maybe I could be her new work wife? Maybe she would come to me when she’d had a tough day? Maybe we could go for drinks after work (I’d be good, I promise!) and take selfies to fill my poor, neglected Facebook page with? A bubble of excitement started to fizz in the pit of my stomach. I pushed it down. I wasn’t there yet. I had to impress the man who made the decisions. * Owen Scott was not a man I recognised from any of the group pictures on Rose’s Facebook. He was the kind of handsome that creeps up on you. At first glance, I saw this slightly greying, craggy-faced man, with a dimpled chin and a mild look of irritation on his face. He looked uncomfortable as he took a seat behind a messy desk in what must have been the practice’s admin office. He swore quietly under his breath as he rifled through some paperwork to find just what he was looking for, and my confidence from just five minutes before started to fade. I clenched my fists at my side, rubbing my fingers across my palm to fight off the clammy sensation I was feeling. I tried to steady my breathing. Reminded myself that it was okay. I could do this. I looked at the top of his head, the sprinkles of salt and pepper colour through his dark locks, which really could have done with a trim. Watched him run his hands (no wedding ring) through his hair before he sat upright and looked at me, taking a deep breath. ‘I should have been more prepared,’ he said. ‘Things have been a bit difficult here lately.’ He looked tired and I nodded. ‘I spoke to Donna. She told me about Rose. I’m very sorry for your troubles.’ With sad, grey eyes he nodded. ‘Rose kept things running fairly smoothly here – I’m afraid we’ve all kind of let things go a bit since … well, since.’ ‘That’s understandable,’ I said. ‘It must have been a great shock.’ He nodded again, but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The shock was written all over his face. He took another deep breath, cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Now, Emily D’Arcy?’ he began. I nodded. ‘Obviously I’ve looked at your CV. It’s been a while since you worked directly with the general public, but your qualifications seem to be in order. This is a very busy practice, we rely on people who can work well, and under pressure at times. We value good organisational skills – how can you sell yourself to us?’ I had rehearsed my answer carefully. ‘I’m hard working and diligent. Yes, the last few years have been spent helping people remotely, but I believe if you can deal with sometimes irate callers, while timed and on script, you can deal with almost anything. I also like to think my age is an asset in circumstances such as these. I bring a certain maturity and appreciation of what being a good team player means with me.’ He nodded, looked down at the sheet in front of him and back up at me. He sighed, and I clenched and released my hands by my side to ease the tension creeping through my body. ‘And your last job? Why did you leave?’ I tried to keep my face non-expressive. Now was not the time for an exaggerated eye roll or badly timed grimace. ‘I craved working directly with the public again. Doing something to help people. I found CallSolutions wasn’t really offering me a challenge anymore. I decided to take a leap of faith. I mean, you never really know what’s ahead of you, do you? And I thought I could stay there and continue to feel uninspired and demotivated or I could push myself into making a change by making a big gesture and hoping it paid off. So I quit – and I took a chance because sometimes in life, you just have to take chances.’ I knew I was being horribly, terribly manipulative. I had anticipated this question because I’m not totally stupid, and I had decided to play on the recent tragedy in Owen Scott’s life, which may just have focused his mind on the whole ‘life is too short’ thing. I was playing dirty, but my intentions were from a good place. It was almost imperceptible but I saw something in Owen’s eyes after my answer. Something that made his features soften, his face look less worn, his handsomeness creep up on me a bit more. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know this must be a very difficult time for everyone here and it can’t be easy having someone come in to take over a job that was previously held by someone you all clearly held in such very high esteem. I can’t imagine how you are all feeling right now – but if you give me a chance, I promise you won’t regret it.’ I was surprised to find I actually meant what I was saying. Even more surprised to feel a lump form in my throat and tears spring to my eyes. I hadn’t cried since Rose Grahame died. I didn’t think I had a right – even though what I had seen had been traumatic and awful and sometimes when I woke in the night I could still see her eyes staring right at me. But there, sitting across from Owen – noting that small, tiny change in his demeanour – the softness in his gaze, the realisation that I really, really did want and need to change my life hit me. That, far from this being just a speech I was giving to earn me a job where Rose had been happy, I realised this was a place I could be happy. I willed the tears to stay where they were. I took a slow breath in, and then, shuddering just lightly, I exhaled. Owen was looking at me. I wasn’t actually sure if he had spoken after my emotional outburst or if he was, like me, wondering what on earth to say next. ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, reaching for my bag. ‘For what?’ he said, looking genuinely baffled. ‘For getting a little emotional,’ I lied. ‘It was unprofessional of me.’ But what I really wanted to say was that I was sorry that it was me, and not Rose, who was sat in front of him. That I was sorry she, and not me, had died. ‘We’re all a little emotional around here these days,’ he said softly, a small, comforting smile playing on his lips. ‘We get the whole life is short thing. And we get that some people need second chances.’ * Second Chances. I almost wrote a blog called that. A secret blog that I wanted to start when it all went wrong. It would be private, anonymous. It would be a therapy of sorts. No one would need to know about it. Not even Maud. Maud would have thought it was a spectacularly bad idea. It would have made her worry. I didn’t want to worry her anymore. That’s maybe why I decided against it, in the end. That and the fear that things always get out. We share too much, you know. All of us. Even those of us who swear we don’t. We let it out in our behaviour. What we like. What we don’t. The pages we follow. The clothes we wear in our pictures. Our inspirational quotes. Our lack of inspirational quotes. The music we share. The things we write when we’re tired. Or emotional. Or drunk. The life we let people see. The life we let ourselves believe. It’s strange how we can convince ourselves our Facebook life is our actual life – because we want it so desperately to be. I did anyway. I found my Facebook life, where things were good and glossed over, very difficult to let go of when it all ended because I knew people – who I had perhaps done my best to make jealous – would enjoy some sort of Schadenfreude when it all went tits up. That expression flashed through my brain again. No one to blame but myself. I had been too open. Believed too much in sharing. Believed the world to be a good place. Believed people had the same motives as I had. I had believed in the power of love. I had believed I could make him love me as much as I loved him. That I could change him. No, not change – fix. Heal. Heal him with love. I tolerated so much because I believed, in my heart and in my soul, that Ben Cullen was a good person. A damaged soul. A bit battered, but I could soften his rough edges. I could love him into being the person I knew he was beneath his thorny, gruff exterior. Beneath the outburst – the angry ranting, the occasional hand to my left cheek, the pinching of skin, twisting it so it turned white, blanched of blood, before his grip loosened and the purple of a bruise started. Upper arms. Upper thighs. Hidden bruises from a misunderstood man. He was hurting too; I was sure of it. Even when his anger shifted gear – when he became lazy about making sure the bruises could be hidden so easily, or when his tongue loosened a little too much in company. Not that we kept much company. We enjoyed ‘another cosy night in together’ too much – well, according to my Facebook posts we did. But I loved him. I did. I adored him. I wanted so badly to make it better for him, for both of us. I believed with all my heart that I could. Then I got a message on Facebook from someone I didn’t know. Someone who had a picture of the man I so smugly, desperately, passionately, soulmate-ingly loved with his tongue down another woman’s throat and his hand up her skirt. If there was any doubt it was him, the second picture, one which showed his face twisted in orgasmic ecstasy as the object of his affections knelt in front of him, did away with all of that. I knew the shirt he was wearing. I had bought it for him for Christmas. The last Christmas we were together. The first Christmas we had been an engaged couple. He had betrayed me. My soulmate. The man who I had tried to help. Who I had let take his rage out on me in the hope that one day he would be spent of it all. But he had betrayed and humiliated me – although I knew the worst of the humiliation was still to come when the news spread. When people started talking. Leaving ‘supportive’ messages on my Facebook page. Inspirational quotes. Songs. When I unpublished the dream wedding Pinterest board and the beautifully filtered Instagram pictures of us walking along the beach. When I realised, or accepted, what a lie it had all been. When I knew that it had been my fault for wanting it as much as I did. For letting him do to me what he did. Because I thought we could be happy. I had no one to blame but myself. Those words were so true. And of course, I’d love to say those moments – that night and the days that followed when I dismantled my real life, along with my virtual existence – were the lowest I sank. But they weren’t, of course. The worst would come later. Chapter Seven (#ulink_7dacc31b-543e-504d-bad2-a8e2ec07f52b) I was shocked and surprised to find out I was being offered the job at the dentist’s. Okay it was a much lower salary than I had been paid in the call centre (and that had been a shockingly low salary to start with) but it did offer me the new start I had been longing for. I sent a quick email to Maud to thank her for both the suggestion and the reference. And for persuading Andrew to give me a reference that probably led him to spending a good hour in Confession for all the lies he told. Not that they were really lies – I was a good worker. Or I could be. Maud had been mildly horrified when I told her I’d put her name down as a referee. ‘I was only joking when I said you should apply for the job,’ she’d said, her voice solemn. ‘Maybe you were, but you had a point. There’s a job there and I need a job. Why wouldn’t I throw my hat in the ring?’ She had paused, a soft humming coming over the phone line. ‘Do you not think it a bit odd?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you saw that woman die. And now you’re applying for a job in her old workplace? Her job?’ ‘Hmm,’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe if I had known her. But I didn’t. I mean, yes I saw what happened and it was horrible but it shouldn’t hold me back. This could be a real chance for me and I need one now that Andrew has turfed me out. It’s not like this place is overflowing with jobs either, is it? Beggars can’t be choosers.’ So I persuaded Maud to not only give me a reference but also to speak to Andrew and ask him to back her up. I knew it was cheeky, but I also knew Maud had pull. I had long suspected Andrew had a crush on her and would do anything she asked. I smiled as I tapped out the email to her on my laptop. ‘This is going to be a new beginning,’ I told her. ‘I know I haven’t always got it right in the past but I can get it right now. You have to meet these people, Maud. You would really like them. They’re so genuine. I think I will really fit in there.’ I was still smiling when I hit send, and when I got up and started to declutter and clean the flat. This would be a new start and I would put myself in the best place possible to make the most of it. I threw open the curtains for the first time in weeks and whizzed round, vacuuming everywhere, even under the sofa and along the skirting boards. I stripped my bed, put the sheets in a boil wash and tried not to think about the last time I had changed them. I dusted. I bleached. I swept the pile of magazines and junk mail from the coffee table and put them in a pile by the door for recycling. I cleaned out my cupboards and my fridge. I threw out a lot of food that was past its sell by date, and anything with mould went straight in the bin. Then I grabbed my shopping bags and took myself to the M&S Food Hall where I put a decent shop of fruit and veg and low-fat meals on my credit card. And bottled water. I bought a lot of bottled water. It seemed like the thing to do. The old me was just that: old, in the past, and gone. This would be the new me – a better version than any previous model. Lessons learned, rock bottom hit, and I had pushed myself away from it again, swimming upwards towards fresh air. The last few weeks – the Ben Blip as I would call it – would be just that. A blip. I showered when I got home, then made myself a dinner of low-fat bolognaise served with butternut squash noodles and poured myself a long glass of mineral water. Then I sat on my freshly plumped and vacuumed sofa, pulled my laptop onto my knee and logged into my Facebook account. I stared at my long-neglected wall – the account I’d only kept open so I could keep an eye on everyone else. That evening though, I updated my status, picking a quote about life being a big adventure and being grateful for the journey. I clicked into my notifications and finally rejected Ben’s friend request once and for all. Then I clicked onto Rose’s profile. There was another message from Cian – and I couldn’t resist reading. Rose, It’s been just over a month since you left me. Since you left us. I know they say time heals, and that no time at all has really passed, but at the moment each day just gets harder. Jack looks for you. His eyes search you out when he wakes. He calls out ‘Mama’ – and I know when it’s me that peeks over the cot at him he is disappointed each and every day. Every day that disappointment kills another little piece of me. He can’t understand where you’ve gone. How can I expect him to understand when I can’t either? I don’t want this to be true. I have begged and pleaded with God to bring you back – I know, it’s stupid of me. You know I never even believed in God anyway. But if I thought there was a chance … Rose, I’d do anything. I’d promise him anything. Everything I have. All the success. All the awards. Everything. I’d give myself to have you here. Then again, what kind of God would take you away from me? Take you away from Jack? What kind of a God would leave a child without a mother? No kind of God I would want to know or believe in. That’s not a God of kindness – there is no kindness, no ‘bigger picture’, no ‘plan’ in you leaving us. My arms feel so empty – but so heavy, all at the same time. They ache for you. They don’t understand why you aren’t there. They are without purpose. I am without purpose. If I had known our time together would be so short, I would have tried harder. I would have been better. I would have protected you more. I would never have let you out of my sight. Not even for five minutes. I’d have fought off anyone who tried to take you away. Even a god. I’d have fought, and I’d have kept you safe. I need to believe you are out there, my one and only. I need to believe my arms will hold you again. Always and forever, Cian I wiped away a tear, looked at his profile picture. Still the smiling image of his late wife. I contemplated, very briefly, sending him a message. Telling him she was still out there. I believe that. That people don’t really leave. Their echoes remain. Someone as bright and vivacious as Rose – that energy doesn’t just, can’t just, disappear. It has to go somewhere. I wanted to tell him to stay strong – for that beautiful blue-eyed baby who smiled so brightly at his mother as she sang to him. The baby who screamed as she pushed his buggy out of the way of the oncoming car, throwing herself in its path instead. But I didn’t. I closed my laptop and reached into my bag for one of my anti-anxiety tablets. They would help me sleep and prepare myself for my new beginning. Hopefully they would even stop Rose from slipping into my dreams again – her face pale, her eyes now cloudy and grey. * My uniform fitted nicely. I found the conformity of it – the sense of belonging that came with it – comforting. Teamed with a pair of white soft leather ballet shoes and a silver name badge, I looked good. Crisp. Fresh. Professional. I still hadn’t contoured my make-up or flicked my eyeliner, but I had made more of an effort than usual. I looked good, and more than that, I felt good. Both Donna and Owen greeted me when I arrived. Their smiles seemed warm, their welcome genuine. They introduced me to the other staff, whose names I would remember eventually. Although, to be fair, I felt like I knew some of them from their Facebook profiles already. Donna led me through to the staff canteen, showed me where everything was – the teabags, the coffee, the ladies’ loos. Then she led me to a small back room that was lined with lockers. ‘This is yours,’ she said, pointing to one right in the middle of the top row. All the others looked as if they were in use. I wondered for a second whether they were giving me Rose’s locker. I wondered whether to ask, but decided against it. Instead, I pushed my bag into the back of it and closed it, taking out the key and slipping it into my pocket. ‘Owen doesn’t like us having our phones while we’re working, but it’s fair game at break and lunch. Although, to be honest, we tend to spend more time gabbing than tweeting or Facebooking,’ Donna said. ‘Do you all eat lunch together then?’ Donna nodded. ‘Well, sort of. I mean, we have staggered lunches because we can’t all just disappear for an hour – but we do tend to have a good natter. We ring a sandwich order to the deli down the street every day at 11. You’re not obliged to join us, but they are lovely sandwiches. They do paninis, wraps, all that sort of thing. And the most delicious salads and soups.’ ‘You’ve me sold,’ I smiled, imagining girly gossips over lovely food in that cosy kitchen, where a framed picture of Rose was now hung on the wall, watching over us all. ‘You’ll shadow Tori for today,’ said Donna. ‘She’s been on reception for a year – was Rose’s deputy. She’ll show you how everything works. We’ll get you a bit of time in the surgeries too, sometimes we have to pull people in from reception to help. Nothing on the squeamish side, but note taking, making sure the records are updated properly. Best to get used to working with the sound of the drill. But Tori will keep you right, show you the system out front. Explain our policies with emergency appointments, missed appointments, and regular bookings.’ She smiled the whole time she talked so it was impossible to feel overwhelmed. It all sounded doable – even working to the sound of the drill. ‘That all sounds good,’ I said, beaming without having to force it. Owen was equally welcoming. He smiled and shook my hand, welcomed me to the ‘madhouse’, made sure I had all the logins I needed for reception, and showed me the filing system in the admin office. ‘It’s your first day. Everyone gets a get-out-of-jail-free card on their first day. So just take it easy. Don’t worry about things. Follow Tori’s lead. Don’t be afraid to ask questions, and as long as we don’t find you sucking on the nitrous oxide between appointments you’ll do great.’ He laughed and I laughed back and threw myself into my new work. I felt so light – so inspired. Donna made sure the pair of us ate lunch together, recommending a BLT from the deli, which she told me had an extra zing thanks to a gorgeous tomato chutney they made in store. We sat at the small table, steaming cups of coffee in front of us, and she told me I had done well. ‘I’m sure you will fit right in. Owen knows how to pick good staff, you know.’ She smiled then paused, glancing up at the picture on the wall. ‘Is this awkward for you all?’ I asked softly. ‘Someone being here who isn’t Rose.’ She looked down at her sandwich, put it down and sipped from her cup. ‘Not awkward as such. Strange maybe. I never thought we wouldn’t have her here. Even when she was on maternity leave with Jack she would call in all the time. She couldn’t stay away. She’d pop in for a five-minute chat and end up offering to sort out some charts for Owen, or help out with a nervous patient. She had a way of calming them. All of us got used to nursing Jack while she did her bit, not that we complained. That baby is a dote.’ Her smile dropped at the mention of his name. I suppose she was imagining him as a poor motherless child – the baby that couldn’t understand where his mother had gone according to Cian. I reached over and rubbed her hand. ‘I can’t imagine …’ I said. ‘She loved it here too. Said we were her family. You know, she didn’t have to work – especially after Cian’s books became so successful. He wanted her to stay at home with Jack but she said we were all her family too, and while she loved him, she loved us as well. I used to tell her I’d give anything to have a husband who begged me to stay at home – provided for us …’ Her eyes filled and I gave her hand an extra squeeze. She sniffed and looked up, roughly rubbing her eyes, her perfect eyeliner smudging. ‘Yes, but we have to move on, don’t we? And God, here you are putting in a great first morning. We don’t want you to think you have to try and fill her shoes. You’re your own person and we’re happy to have you here.’ ‘I understand that it’s tough. What happened to her … The shock of it must have been fierce.’ ‘It was,’ she said, putting her coffee cup down and rewrapping her half-eaten lunch. She stood up. ‘It still is. Look, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and check my phone – make sure the kids’ school hasn’t been on to me. There’s always one of them forgetting their PE gear or recorder or some other such disaster. I do my best to keep on top of them but, well, I’m only one woman, and not Wonder Woman.’ She offered me a smile but it didn’t seem to reach all the way to her eyes. As she left the room she glanced again in the direction of the picture on the wall. ‘I’m my own person. I’m here on my own merits. I am doing a good job,’ I whispered to myself as I forced the last bites of the sandwich down – the zesty tomato chutney now tasting a little bitter. As I balled up the wrapping from my sandwich, Donna came back in, and took a deep breath. ‘Look, see everything here, with Rose, with it all. It’s just … well, it’s complicated, and it’s still raw.’ ‘Complicated?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. She looked to the door, and back to me. ‘Look, it’s … maybe complicated is the wrong word. There’s a lot to try and make sense of is all. It gets on top of me sometimes.’ I would have asked her more, but just as I opened my mouth one of the other girls walked into the kitchen and started asking us about our day. The moment was gone, but the words would stay with me. That night, changed into my lounge wear, my make-up removed with cleansers and toners and not my usual swipe of a baby wipe, I smiled at a friend request from Donna on my Facebook page, and when Owen sent a quick text to say he hoped my first day hadn’t been too off-putting. I typed a quick reply, put my phone down and sat back and thought of everything that had happened over the last few years. After Ben. My life was divided that way; before Ben and after Ben. The actual ‘with Ben’ stage didn’t even seem to matter so much anymore. It had been a lie anyway. Was this, this new era at Scott’s, a new beginning? I didn’t know. I wanted a new beginning. A new start. Friends. A lover maybe. A life. All the things I had fought in vain for over the last few years. The years that had followed that most public fall from grace. I had been broken. In pieces. Pieces that no matter how patiently, how delicately, I tried to fit them back together, could never be the same as they were before they were broken in the first place. Sharp edges jutted out. Others, dulled by thick globs of glue – ugly, deformed, misshapen. All the pieces were still there. But they weren’t the same. I was not the same. How could I have been? The whole had become both more and less than the sum of all its parts. Maybe what I had been trying to do these last few years was to break myself again in a stupid attempt to make this break cleaner, hoping the fix would be neater this time. But it just made it worse. The gaps started to widen. So I stuffed the gaps with whatever I could find. First drink, then pills. They made the broken edges softer. They made it more bearable. Except they also made it worse. They facilitated me making poor decisions. Voicing my hurt to him. To show Ben my anger, and not realise that the truth can often be distorted. He told his side of the story – his lies – to anyone who would listen and they believed him because they saw the drunk I was quickly becoming. Believed I was unstable. I started to spend each and every minute of darkness in a ball of anxiety, sure that it would never get light again. You can’t take these things for granted. When you get complacent things go wrong. I had thought about suicide. Especially at night when the very act of existing hurt. When even banging my head against the wall didn’t silence them. When I missed him so badly that all I could think of was how little effort it would take to make it all stop. To break myself so badly that no one – not even all the king’s horses and all the king’s men – could put me back together again. I even planned it. It was the awful winter of 2010. The snow didn’t seem to stop. The headlines were filled with record low temperatures. The River Foyle froze, Europe’s fastest-flowing river, now creaking, slow, thick with the effort of trying to break through the ice. I planned to go the beach. I would wash down some pills with vodka, walk down to the shore front, sit crossed-legged on the sand, and wait for the cold to feel too warm. Wait for the vodka and the pills to lull me to sleep, or to a place where I didn’t hurt so much. Maud thinks I mustn’t have really wanted to do it. She thinks it was all a cry for help. Why else would I have sent Ben an email telling him that it was my turn to leave him? That I couldn’t live without him. Maud needed to think it was just a cry for help, if you ask me. Because it was too hard to think it was anything but. And my parents? I don’t think they have ever forgiven me. I let them down. How could I have done that to them? As if I had done it just to spite them. Our relationship has never recovered. I have never recovered. Chapter Eight (#ulink_749d8cc2-332a-5360-ba02-e4afdde772c8) 2007 Rose Rose Maguire: is in a relationship with Cian Grahame There’s a freckle about two inches under my left breast that Cian loves. I’m not sure I even paid attention to it before he told me how cute he thought it was. Before he circled his finger around it as we lay in bed together before leaning across to kiss it, so tenderly that I could only hold my breath. ‘Even your imperfections make you more perfect,’ he had whispered, and my heart had soared. I was falling in love with him. Properly in love. Not just lust, or desire or those feelings that aren’t real that just rush in at the start of something to make people obsessed with each other. This was something more. Love that I’d read about, where you feel invincible; as if you have met the other half of yourself that you didn’t quite know was missing. I knew that I ached when we weren’t together – although he sent me flowers to work, called me at lunchtime, sent romantic text messages telling me he couldn’t wait to be with me again. When I went home he would come and make me dinner – and he finally let me start reading what he had been working on. It was so different to what I normally read – but it was good. He was good. He had talent to burn. I wanted to tell everyone about him – about his writing – but God, he was so shy about it. So secretive. It had to be just right he said. I felt so privileged that he let me read it. But more than that, Cian wanted me to keep him company while he wrote round the clock. I was his muse, he said. Imagine that. Me? A muse! It made me feel unique and special, even if sometimes it seemed that a muse’s role was not to talk much but supply cups of coffee and Custard Creams when needed. Of course I got to be there when the doubt started to creep in too – doubt, it seems, having a habit of creeping in with writers quite frequently at 3am when I was trying to sleep. But I loved him enough not to mind waking to soothe him, to calm him with a kiss. To tell him how good he was. It made me feel special, and he would hold me tighter and tell me he didn’t know how he ever wrote without me, how he felt as if he was on the cusp of his life finally coming together, both personally and professionally. He was getting all he ever wanted – and taking me with him. There was a hotshot agent interested in representing Cian and this book so the stakes were high on him getting this just right. It was incredible pressure to work under. Not like my job where I went in, sorted out people’s teeth, and went home again. I didn’t have to think about my job morning, noon and night. Cian said the book was always with him. Always. I’d laughed, asked him if it was with him even when we were, you know … He looked at me very intently and I felt that familiar curl in the pit of the stomach – the one that made me want to forget the run of myself and have noisy, messy sex with him right there and then. ‘It’s always with me,’ he had said and then he’d kissed me so passionately, with such an intensity it almost took my breath away. If he became a little distracted from time to time I reminded myself it was, as he called it, just part of the creative process. I remembered how it came and went – how when things were going well for him he became almost euphoric with the joy from it and I encouraged those good times and was suitably sympathetic when he had a bad day. And I revelled in the highs – in the way he kissed that freckle just under my left breast and told me that my imperfections made me more perfect. Perhaps it was the same with him? And God, I was falling so in love with the perfect and the imperfect parts of him that I don’t think anything could have stopped me. Chapter Nine (#ulink_bb6c1a21-b9e3-57d2-bbd8-9ff2133fc685) Emily A man was arrested in relation to Rose Grahame’s death two weeks after I started work at Scott’s Dental. I say a man, but he was more of a boy. Nineteen years old. A ‘frequent flyer’ at the local Magistrates’ Court, according to the prosecutor who oversaw his first appearance. Charged with a host of offences, including Aggravated Vehicle Taking and Failing to Stop and Report an Accident, Kevin McDaid wore a greying shirt with a black tie – probably the only tie he owned, bought for funerals – along with a cheap suit as he stood in the dock. The pictures in the local media showed him trying to hide his face as he was led in handcuffs from the court building to the waiting police van. Remanded in custody. Bail denied. But his solicitor made it clear he would appeal that decision in the High Court. There was every chance he’d be out on the street in days. A young lad who had a penchant for stealing cars, driving them too fast and leaving them abandoned somewhere. He’d never offended on this level before, his solicitor said. ‘Racked with guilt, my client has been unable to sleep and has turned once again to alcohol and drugs.’ He had ‘simply panicked’ when he hit Rose and had driven on in that state of panic. He knew there were people around who could help Rose. He didn’t think he’d hurt her. Not really. Not enough to kill her. It probably made me a bad person that I sagged with relief at the news. He was admitting it. It had been an accident. I had overreacted thinking it was anything more sinister than that. Maud had been right. Things had been crazy with Ben. That he had got in touch again so close to Rose’s death was nothing more than a coincidence. Kevin McDaid ‘wouldn’t trouble the court’ his solicitor had said, indicating his client would be pleading guilty to all charges. It should have made things easier. Possibly even make us feel some compassion of sorts for Kevin McDaid. Kevin McDaid, who hadn’t even shaved before his court appearance, if the pictures were anything to go by. His stubble, unlike Cian’s, was the kind that was borne out of laziness and not any kind of a style statement. Although there was a trace of utter wretchedness about him – in the way he walked, the scuffed trainers on his feet, the panicked look on his face – I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for him. Even though I, of all people, knew that people could fuck things up. He was nineteen. Even if he got a heavy sentence, he would still be out and walking the streets in his early thirties. He would still have all the years Rose didn’t have. The news of the arrest and of the court appearance saw a dip in mood at Scott’s. It made me feel a little guilty that it had brought me a sense of relief I hadn’t felt in weeks. At least I didn’t have to sneak around trying to see what was happening; everyone in Scott’s was talking about it. Everyone, naturally enough, was obsessed by it. Even Owen took time out from a patient to watch the lunchtime news report, and to shake his head when Kevin McDaid appeared on screen. ‘Isn’t he one of ours?’ Tori had asked, and a room of horrified faces turned to look at her. ‘I think he’s one of our patients – or was. There’s something about him?’ Donna had gone to the office to check our records and came back a few minutes later, ashen-faced. ‘He was a patient here before. Lapsed now. Was here as a child; hasn’t been since he was sixteen.’ Owen walked out of the room, slamming the door so strongly behind him that tea from a cup that had been sitting beside me shook and spilled onto the table. For the rest of the day he went about his work saying only what he needed to and no more. The rest of us walked on egg shells around him, all the while lost in our own thoughts about how the foolish actions of a nineteen-year-old could change the lives of so many. * On the day Kevin McDaid was brought before the court, I found myself itching to get on Facebook to try and see how Cian was coping. Was he angry like Owen? Was he a bigger person than many of us? Had he found compassion for his wife’s killer? Did he have a sense of closure? A victory that, bar sentencing, the man who had taken his wife from him was being brought to justice? I found he hadn’t written much. No letter to Rose. No rant at the judiciary. No angry words aimed at Kevin McDaid. In fact, just four words. From Darkness Comes Light. It was the title of his most successful book to date. I hadn’t read it, to be honest. I wasn’t much of a reader. Didn’t have the concentration span for anything more than reading bite-size portions of news and stories. Still I clicked onto Amazon, searched Cian’s name and the book title. The blurb didn’t enlighten me much. I was able to ascertain, amid the flowery language, that it was a story about redemption, of a flawed detective who found he was losing all he held dear, and who battled to make his life his own again. I clicked to buy it, wondering if Cian and I were more kindred spirits than I had ever thought before; if he would understand, in a way few could, that flawed people can find the light again. When I asked the girls at work a bit more about Rose and Cian, being so very careful to make sure I didn’t reveal just how much I had gleaned about them from my hours on the internet, Tori told me they had been the most in love couple she had ever set eyes on. ‘He would come and pick her up from work each day. He used to tell me he couldn’t wait a minute more to see her. And that wee baby of theirs? Well you combine the genetics of that pair and you get a baby that could be a model. Rose was such a good mum to him too. She doted on him.’ I wondered what that was like, to have someone come to collect you from work because they just could not bear to be away from you for five more minutes? Oh, to have someone love me like that and mean it. So when I read Cian’s posts on Facebook, when I thought of a man who feared losing it all more than anything in the world, I thought of Tori’s words – the dreamy look that came across her face when she spoke of him – and I thought how unjust it was that someone with so much love to give had been left with this gaping hole in his life? On occasion, when I closed my eyes at night in my bed, I allowed myself to picture his face. Allowed myself to think he was saying those love-filled words to me. That he would look at me with such an intensity that I would fear my breath would catch in my throat forever. That maybe he would kiss me, the roughness of his stubble rubbing against my chin and my face so that when he pulled away I would feel that I had been thoroughly kissed. I tried to not allow myself to think about that very much because it felt a little wrong. But sometimes, in the darkness of my bedroom at night, it felt very, very right. * It was an unusually quiet Tuesday morning when the door of Scott’s Dental Practice opened and a man pushing a buggy edged his way in backwards out of the rain. I was at the reception desk dealing with patients, beside Tori who was answering the phones. I looked up when the door opened, an instinctual reaction to the gust of cuttingly cold air that rushed in and made me shiver where I sat. Fat droplets of rain ran from the man’s coat to the non-slip mat underneath his feet. His hair was matted to his head and his jeans bore a tide mark from where they had soaked up the moisture from the ground. He brushed the excess water from the top of the rain cover on the buggy, sending it splashing onto the street below before he turned around and closed the door behind him. I knew him immediately. Even though he was soaked and tired-looking. Even though his face was thinner than it had been before, more drawn. Cian Grahame. I felt myself suck in the air around me, my hands tense, my brain screaming at me not to welcome him by name. To fight the urge to run up to him and hug him and tell him I was so, so sorry for his loss. That I found his letters to her moving and genuine and heartbreaking. That I had started to read his book, that I felt enchanted by the lyrical language, by the sense that he knew me, that he was talking about me in his fluid prose. I held my breath as he walked towards me. I peeked over the top of the desk to see a sleeping toddler lying back in his buggy and then I raised my head to look at Cian, directly into his eyes. I prepared myself to welcome him in the most professional way possible. He didn’t know who I was and I, as far as everyone knew, did not know him. I was just about to speak when I heard a gasp from Tori beside me. ‘Cian!’ she cried out, the two patients sitting in the waiting area looking up at the commotion. She jumped from her seat and moved out from behind the desk at lightning speed and threw herself at him, pulling him into a giant hug. He took a step back, but she followed him, not letting go of her grip. He let her hug him, his arms limp at his side before she pulled back and glanced down at the buggy, tapping on the rain cover and cooing loudly at the baby inside. ‘Oh Cian, it’s so lovely to see you here! And Jack too.’ Stunned from his slumber, Jack blinked at her through the prisms of raindrops. I watched him rub his eyes with chubby fists as Tori whipped the rain cover off and lifted him out of his pram and into her arms. He started to cry, but Tori, oblivious to being the cause for the child’s distress, just pulled him close to her and kissed the top of his head, telling him it was okay. Cian stood watching the scene, not interjecting. He looked worn out. I fought the urge to reach out to him and offer to help him in whatever way I could. Tori continued to coo at Jack while Cian spoke, his voice soft and low. ‘I know Rose was intending to register Jack here so I wanted to do what she wanted. His first teeth are well through so it’s time to start doing things, isn’t it? I thought I would bring him here for a check. Sure, he knows you all anyway.’ At that he turned to look at me. He narrowed his eyes, looked me up and down as if trying to place me. ‘Hi,’ I said softly. ‘I’m Emily. I’m very sorry for your loss.’ I extended my hand to his, but his arms remained by his side. He just looked at me, his eyes vacant, and I grew wildly uncomfortable. ‘When did you start here?’ he asked, blinking at me. ‘A month ago, something like that,’ I answered. ‘You’re her replacement then?’ he said, his voice sad but I couldn’t help but notice a new tension in his jaw. ‘Owen didn’t waste much time, did he?’ I blushed, blinked. Didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like that. I’ve heard Rose was irreplaceable,’ I offered. ‘Clearly not,’ he said, any softness gone from his voice. I couldn’t find any words. I just stood and looked at him and then to Tori, hoping to catch her eye, but she was lost cooing over Jack who had stopped his crying and was looking around him, taking in the sight that must have been so familiar to him at one time. I felt awkward. The blush that had started at the back of my neck turning into a slight sweat. I felt stupid. Self-conscious. Unwanted. Angry too – if I’m honest – at his response. Still he looked at me, his gaze filled with disdain. I tried to jolt myself into action, remember I was here to be professional. ‘You wanted to register your son?’ I muttered. ‘Is Donna here?’ he answered. ‘Or Owen himself? Or would he not come and talk to me, the husband of one of his most beloved employees?’ His voice dripped with scorn. ‘They’re with a patient just now, but I’m sure they would be happy to see you. In the meantime, I can help you with the paperwork you need to do?’ I offered a small smile, which wasn’t returned. ‘I know how to fill in a registration form,’ he said, as I attached one to a clipboard and handed it to him with a Scott’s Dental pen. He stalked to the seating area. The two waiting patients gawked at him, having given up the pretence of looking at their phones to watch the scene unfolding before them. Tori, who was now singing ‘Humpty Dumpty’ to Jack, was lost in her own happy world. Clearly, she never really thought about how tragic it was when all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again. To my shame I felt tears prick at my eyes and a lump form at the back of my throat. I realised my hands were clenched as a wave of anxiety threatened to buckle me. This was not the Cian I had come to know from his Facebook posts. This was not the man I had felt so sorry for. He was mean and cruel and I suddenly felt like the outsider again. How could he not be the person he let the world believe he was? Then again, Ben had turned out to be someone, something, I never could have dreamed possible. When I heard the surgery door open and saw Donna walking out, leading a patient to reception, I sagged with relief. She could deal with him now. She could listen to his aggression about how Owen had the audacity to replace his dead wife, the dead wife who, the cruel part of me wanted to tell him, clearly wasn’t even one bit fit for work. I needed some air. I watched as Donna caught sight of Tori with Jack, how she looked at the waiting area where Cian sat with his head bowed over the form, scowling in anger. I watched as she turned back to me as if to give herself a chance to take in what she was seeing and I nodded. ‘I need my break, Donna,’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a bit faint,’ I lied, walking straight through the door to the staff kitchen and locker room before she had the chance to stop me. I pulled my bag from my locker, rummaged through it until I found the strip of anti-anxiety pills that would bring me a little calm, and pressed two out into my hand. Running water from the cooler, I threw the pills back and gulped the water to wash them down and then sat on a chair, under the beatific picture of Rose, trying to still my hands from shaking. I don’t think I ever thought I would actually come face-to-face with him. Of course, I knew he was a real person but he had taken on a different kind of status in my mind. He was my romantic lead. The man who wrote beautiful, heartbreaking, impassioned letters to his late wife. Not this gruff, wan-looking man with his steely eyes looking at me like I was a piece of shit he had just wiped off his shoe. Not this man who was angry at me just because I existed. Because I stood in the spot his wife once did. I knew he was grieving. I wasn’t stupid. I know grief makes you say and do things that perhaps you probably wouldn’t normally, but I hadn’t deserved for him to dismiss me in that manner. I sipped from my glass of water and wondered whether it was worth going outside for a quick smoke. Remembering the sheets of rain battering against the glass front of the practice, I decided against it. Besides, I was really trying to cut down – the cool and beautiful girls of Scott’s Dental didn’t smoke. Two of them vaped but that was different, of course. That didn’t leave a funk of stinky smoke on their clothes. It didn’t turn their professionally whitened teeth yellow. I was just about to put my bag back in my locker and return to work when the door to the staff kitchen opened and Donna shooed Cian in in front of her. ‘Emily, could you put on a cup of tea for Cian here? Just while Owen and I finish with our next patient.’ I wanted to scream, No! I wanted to say could they not find someone – anyone – else to do it instead of me, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t throw a strop. It wasn’t befitting of someone in a white uniform with perfectly preened hair and a silver name badge. So I smiled and said yes, and set about my task without making eye contact with him. I heard Donna tell Cian she and Owen wouldn’t be long, and that the girls were having a wonderful time seeing baby Jack again and maybe a cup of tea would help him settle his nerves. Then she left, all soothing tones and hushed voice, leaving me wishing the kettle would explode and kill me outright and save me having to talk to Cian again. ‘Her picture,’ he said. I’m not sure if he was talking to me, or the room, or no one. I kept my back to him, setting out a cup and dropping a tea bag into it while waiting for the kettle to boil. I should offer him a biscuit too, I supposed. I lifted down the tin from the cupboard and took the lid off. ‘I’m sorry for before,’ he said to my back and I felt myself tense up. I walked to the fridge and took out the milk. ‘I … well … it’s been very hard even coming here. I didn’t know if it was the right thing. I don’t think I know what the right thing is anymore. Rose, she did all these things, you know. Dentists. Doctors. Childminders. And music with mammy classes. No one wants to see the sad widower come along with a grouchy toddler.’ I turned to face him then. ‘So I’m left to try and do all this and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I thought coming here might make me feel closer to her. That was stupid of me, I realise that now. I mean, Jesus, it’s just one more place she isn’t anymore, isn’t it? And I saw you, and you know, the world is moving on without her. Everyone else, they’ve cried their tears and worn their black clothes and, even here, they closed their doors on the day of her funeral, but life goes on, doesn’t it? Even the man who was driving the car – did you know the High Court let him out on bail? He’s walking the streets like he never hurt anyone in his life. And it’s only me, stuck in this fucking mess.’ He was swearing but his words weren’t angry. They were sad and his eyes had filled with tears. My earlier hurt evaporated. ‘It can’t have been easy, coming here,’ I said hesitantly. ‘People haven’t really moved on if that’s any consolation – everyone talks about her all the time, you know? They miss her.’ He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his still wet hair. ‘I didn’t mean to come here and make a tit of myself. Rose would kill me if she could see me now,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she would understand,’ I offered. ‘Milk and sugar?’ He looked up at me as I poured the boiling water into his mug. He looked so wretched I had to fight the urge to put down the kettle, walk across the room and just hold him. He looked like he desperately needed to be held. To be comforted. ‘I’m sorry this happened,’ I offered. ‘Thanks,’ he said, sniffing, and I handed him a piece of kitchen paper to blow his nose with. ‘And no milk but two sugars. Rose used to give out about that. Working here and all.’ He forced a watery smile, which melted my heart even more as I spooned the sugar into the mug and stirred it. ‘Even Owen takes sugar in his tea,’ I said smiling, and offered him the cup. ‘I thought he would be sweet enough,’ Cian said, sipping from his cup. I laughed at the remark. But he didn’t laugh with me. He just rubbed the stubble on his chin and sighed, before taking another sip of his tea. ‘You make a good cuppa,’ he said. ‘One of my few skills,’ I muttered, blushing, offering him the biscuit tin. He reached in and I noticed not only the glint of his wedding ring, but the solid strength of his hands. I sat the tin on the table, moved back across the room. A safe distance. For a minute we said nothing. I tried to find something to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete eejit, but my tongue was tied. Every time something did enter my head it related to something I probably shouldn’t have known about, something I had gleaned from my evenings reading his posts to Rose on Facebook. ‘Your little boy is gorgeous,’ I offered eventually. He smiled again. ‘He’s what’s keeping me going right now. I think I’d have given up without him. He’s such a great little boy. So loving. So funny. He gets all his goodness from Rose, of course.’ ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I said, thinking that the goodness – the love for his son – was oozing right out of him. ‘Oh it’s true,’ Cian said. ‘It’s like he got all her best bits – her temperament, her smarts, her beautiful blue eyes. At times when I look at him, he pulls a face or something and it’s like looking right at her. It’s the nicest thing in the world and a kick in the teeth at the same time.’ ‘It must be hard, I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything to say that will make a difference. It’s just rubbish.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, shaking his head slightly. ‘It’s just rubbish. But Jack, he’s good. He’s the good in all of this.’ ‘I’m sure you’re a great dad. He’s lucky to have you,’ I said. ‘Thank you,’ Cian replied, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts all the same. He put the chocolate biscuit he had selected back in the tin and his cup on the table. I had a feeling he was going to say something more but the door opened and in walked Donna and Owen, the latter holding baby Jack who whooped with delight on seeing his father and threw himself forward, arms wide, towards Cian who pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head. ‘Cian,’ Owen said. ‘We didn’t expect to see you.’ ‘I just thought I’d register Jack here. I know Rose intended to so it seemed the right thing to do.’ ‘Well, I think that’s lovely,’ Donna said. ‘And of course, we’re always happy to see this little fella.’ ‘But if it would upset you and Jack to come here, maybe another dentist would be a better option?’ Owen said, a serious tone to his voice. I watched as Cian lifted the same chocolate biscuit he had put back in the tin just a few minutes before and handed it to his son. ‘Everything upsets us at the minute at one level or another, Owen. If we stopped doing things just because they brought back memories of Rose, we’d never do anything. Not even wake up. She’s everywhere. It’s good for Jack to be around things that can remind him of her. God knows he won’t remember her, not in any real sense – he’s much too young. So I’ll do what it takes to keep her in his life for as long as possible.’ I couldn’t quite pinpoint what exactly felt strange about how Cian spoke to Owen but something was off. Was it his tone? The look on his face? The way he barely blinked as they spoke? All of a sudden I felt as if I was watching something I shouldn’t be. I took the first opportunity I could to slip out of the kitchen and back behind the reception desk to continue with my filing. Not five minutes later, Donna followed Cian and Jack out of the kitchen and through the waiting area, telling him everyone was just struggling to deal with the loss of Rose and his visit had been a bit of a surprise. ‘You’re part of the family here,’ she said, as Cian strapped Jack back into his buggy. ‘And this wee man will always be our lucky mascot.’ Donna crouched down and tickled Jack, who squirmed and giggled back at her. I thought of how he smiled at his mother that day, as she sang to him in the lift. Neither of them knowing what was about to happen. Cian thanked Donna and they hugged briefly. I tried not to stare, or to think what it would be like if I had his arms around me. ‘We’ll see you for this young fella’s first check-up then? In two weeks?’ ‘Yes,’ Cian nodded, pulling up the collar of his still sodden coat before opening the door and stepping back out into the pouring rain. I looked on as Donna watched him push the buggy away from the practice and towards the main street. As she turned on her heel to walk back to the desk, I put my head down and tried to look as if the only thing I was concentrating on was my work. ‘It was nice to see him,’ Tori said. ‘Yes,’ Donna said. ‘Look, girls, could you make sure Jack sees Sarah and not Owen the day of his appointment?’ ‘Are you sure?’ Tori asked, and I looked over to them. Sarah, an old school dentist in her late fifties, worked with us part-time, and normally she didn’t work with the younger children. ‘Yes,’ Donna said. ‘I’m sure.’ Again, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something was off about the whole situation. Chapter Ten (#ulink_948752d0-a21b-5f47-bef3-9bcab44f30ac) Of course I had decided to leave my car at home that day, it hadn’t been raining that morning and it was often quicker and easier to walk to Shipquay Street than to try and beat the morning traffic from Northland Road. So by the time I got home that evening, I was soaked to the skin. There was nothing for it but to strip off and stand under a hot shower until I warmed up. I had dressed in my pyjamas, wrapped my hair in a towel and was staring into a mug of milky tea when I heard my phone ping with a notification. Hoping it was Maud texting to see if I needed to chat – because I really did feel as if I needed to chat – I lifted my phone and unlocked the screen. I swear I thought my heart would stop beating when I saw a message request from Cian Grahame. * I stared at the name in front of me. The icon beside his name was the same profile picture I had been looking at for the better part of the last two months. It was him. Actually him. The last person on earth I ever thought would message me. I threw my phone onto the cushion beside me as if it were suddenly too hot to hold. Cian Grahame was messaging me. I wanted to both read the message and not read the message. I was simultaneously curious and scared. Intrigued and freaked out. I involuntarily muttered a quick ‘fuck’ and lifted my phone again, turning it round and clicking the accept message button so that his words popped up in front of me. Emily, I just wanted to thank you for the kindness you showed me when I came to the surgery with Jack today – and to apologise for the manner in which I spoke to you. Especially when I first arrived at Scott’s. I know you understand how hard this is for me – and I appreciate that you listened while I ranted and raged in the staff room after. People, they don’t always listen. Not really. Grief gets tired for other people pretty quickly. But you listened – and you listened without prejudice. As an outsider – someone who could perhaps give me a bit of a healthier perspective on things. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/claire-allan/her-name-was-rose-the-gripping-psychological-thriller-you-nee/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.