Never Alone E-Book

Elizabeth Haynes

• Herausgeber: Myriad Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 479

Beschreibung

Elizabeth Haynes' new psychological thriller is a brilliantly suspenseful and shocking story in which nothing is at it seems, but everything is at stake. Sarah Carpenter lives in an isolated farmhouse in North Yorkshire and for the first time, after the death of her husband some years ago and her children, Louis and Kitty, leaving for university, she's living alone. But she doesn't consider herself lonely. She has two dogs, a wide network of friends and the support of her best friend, Sophie. When an old acquaintance, Aiden Beck, needs somewhere to stay for a while, Sarah's cottage seems ideal; and renewing her relationship with Aiden gives her a reason to smile again. It's supposed to be temporary, but not everyone is comfortable with the arrangement: her children are wary of his motives, and Will Brewer, an old friend of her son's, seems to have taken it upon himself to check up on Sarah at every opportunity. Even Sophie has grown remote and distant. After Sophie disappears, it's clear she hasn't been entirely honest with anyone, including Will, who seems more concerned for Sarah's safety than anyone else. As the weather closes in, events take a dramatic turn and Kitty too goes missing. Suddenly Sarah finds herself in terrible danger, unsure of who she can still trust. But she isn't facing this alone; she has Aiden, and Aiden offers the protection that Sarah needs. Doesn't he?

Leseprobe

Praise for Never Alone

‘Haynes is one of those “just one more chapter” all-night-reading writers. Her acute understanding of human nature under stress is delicious, her plotting ingenious and trustworthy. Never Alone is a terrific book.’ Alex Marwood

‘A masterclass in suspense. The final chapters are the most sublime I’ve read in ages. So brilliantly tense.’ Clare Mackintosh

‘I knew from the first page that Never Alone was going to grab hold of me and not let go – and I was right. The tension and intrigue ramp up throughout the book, right until the final terrifying moments.’ Rachel Abbott

‘A tale of love, jealousy and obsession. The characters crept under my skin more and more as the story unfolded, revealing layers of intrigue and mystery and finishing with a climactic ending. A superb rollercoaster of emotions.’ Mel Sherratt

‘Atmospheric and beautifully written – impossible to put down. I tore through it, gripped all the way to the pulse-pounding ending. Brilliant.’ Mark Edwards

‘A gripping and tense story that had me on the edge of my seat. A grown-up version of Into the Darkest Corner, this story is full of lust, suspicion, mistrust, desire and guilt. An exceptional psychological thriller.’ Tracy Fenton, THE Book Club

‘Never Alone shows Elizabeth Haynes doing what she does best – cleverly and subtly weaving the terrifying into everyday life. What makes it all the more chilling is that this could happen to any one of us.’ Lisa Cutts

‘Haynes is genius at finely tuned suspense. Never Alone frayed my nerves and gripped me from the start.’ Lesley Thomson

‘A thrilling, atmospheric, creepy and unsettling page-turner.’ Sam Carrington

‘A thrilling, atmospheric, creepy and unsettling page-turner.’ Sam Carrington

‘Tautly written and full of atmosphere. I couldn’t tear myself away from the stifling tension Elizabeth Haynes so skilfully creates. Never Alone took my breath away; it’s a cracking novel.’ Marnie Riches

‘Full of menace, and dead sexy.’ Ava Marsh

Praise for Elizabeth Haynes

‘It’s hard to put the uniqueness of Haynes’ writing into words. Her stories grip you by the throat and force you to acknowledge that this is what real crime and real horror look and feel like, as well as real love, hope, fear. Suddenly, much of the other crime fiction you’ve read seems, in comparison, rather like stories made up by writers. Haynes is the most exciting thing to happen to crime fiction in a long time.’ Sophie Hannah

‘Haynes’ powerful account of domestic violence is disquieting, yet unsensationalist. This is a gripping book on a topic which can never be highlighted enough.’Guardian

‘Check the locks on your doors and windows and surrender to this obsessive thriller.’ Karin Slaughter

‘Haynes does a great job in ratcheting up the suspense… and there are many lip-biting moments.’Daily Mail

‘A chilling read that charts domestic violence without flinching and portrays OCD with insight and compassion.’ Rosamund Lupton

‘All the fascination of a good horror film combined with the terror of a bad nightmare. Features one of the scariest villains I’ve ever encountered.’ Amanda Ross, creator of the Richard and Judy Book Club

‘A terrifying and convincing portrayal of an abusive relationship and a damaged woman’s heroic attempts to recover from it.’Publisher’s Weekly

‘A psychological thriller packed with tension and suspense. This is a debut of such strength you have to wonder if Haynes is the next Minette Walters.’ Rhian Davies, CWA John Creasey Dagger judge

‘A tour de force debut novel that is both creepily disturbing and yet beautifully rendered.’New York Journal of Books

‘Compelling and disturbing.’Mystery Women

‘Fear about the loss of control is at the heart of readers’ obsession with crime… That she lends Genevieve power over fear, her body and the men for whom she dances has enabled Haynes to create a character with more complexity than is usual in genre thrillers.’Independent on Sunday

‘Wonderfully and grimly fascinating… Human Remains could be one of the thrillers of the year.’We Love This Book

‘A deeply unsettling psychological thriller.’Bella

‘Tense and thought-provoking. Its portrayal of obsession will send a shiver down your spine.’Shotsmag

‘This racy jeopardy thriller proves that Haynes’ much-praised first novel was no fluke.’Morning Star

‘Full of suspense and intrigue and keeps the reader hanging on its every word. Very highly recommended.’Eurocrime

‘There are few writers who could write such disturbing prose so beautifully.’Books and Writers

‘It’s now safe to say that Elizabeth Haynes is no longer just a rising star. She is a star.’The Bookbag

‘Fast-paced and chilling… Lock all your doors and settle down for one of the most gripping reads of the year.’Pamreader

For Sarah M’Grady

Contents

Title PageDedicationPart One Part Two Part Three Part FourPart FivePart SixPart SevenAcknowledgements Author’s Note Extract from ‘Revenge of the Tide’About the AuthorCopyright

Part One

Exile is a curious thing. It starts off and you think it’s fine, you think you’re not bothered, but at some point it starts to burn.

I kidded myself that this was what I wanted – I needed the space, I needed time to get my head straight; I needed to find myself. That’s what they say, right? So I ran as far away as I could, and then I started to wonder what I was running from.

Running from myself? Running from my own mistakes?

Hard to admit that.

But it’s impossible to sustain, exile, that’s the thing. Because the feeling of home is too strong a pull, and sooner or later the cord snaps tight and you find yourself working your way back.

And that’s when it starts to get really, really difficult.

When you realise that the people you left behind have changed.

When you realise that you should have stayed away.

Sarah

Not for the first time, Sarah Carpenter stands at the top of the hill and thinks that this would be a good place to die. It feels like the end of the world, so high up that even the trees don’t bother to grow. It’s just tussocky windblown grass, clouds racing overhead, drops of icy rain when you’re not expecting them.

You could die here and nobody would notice. You could lie down, and nobody would ever find you. The wind would continue to blow and the sun, sometimes, would shine, and there would be rain and snow too, picking at your clothes and your flesh until there was nothing left but bones. Even in January, though, with the weather unpredictable and sometimes even dangerous, it’s not just Sarah who comes up here. There are wildlife rangers, fell-walkers. Someone would find you, eventually.

But today – there is not a soul up here. Just Sarah and her two dogs, who have, for the moment, disappeared out of sight.

She is completely alone.

Below her, the slope down to the dry stone wall that marks the boundary of her property is steep and treacherous. There is a field, of sorts, patchy, rutted, the tough grass yellowing and breaking away at the steeper parts, earthy cracks forming uneven terraces. In the field, squatting like a troll, is the derelict croft that once sheltered shepherds, before the farm was built. Below that the gradient begins to even out and there is her garden, stunted trees and a vegetable patch, nothing growing there now. Four Winds Farm huddles into the hillside as though the wind might rip it off its foundations and blow it down into the valley.

‘Basil! Tess!’ Sarah calls, and her words are stolen from her mouth by the wind. She can hardly feel her face now. Time to head back.

Whether she has heard or not, Tess the collie appears from behind her and Basil is not far behind, wagging his tail and looking overjoyed at the fact that he has found something foul to roll in. His blond coat has a long streak of something black from shoulder to flank.

‘Oh, Basil, you little sod.’ She doesn’t have time to give him a bath, not today. Stumbling over the tussocks, she debates hosing him down outside and leaving him out until he’s dried off. But it’s freezing, and, looking at the clouds overhead, it might even snow.

She checks her watch: it’s nearly half-past eight. Perhaps, if she’s quick…

She leaves Basil whining outside the back door while she dries Tess with a towel in the utility room. Out of the wind, her cheeks are stinging and her ears humming with the sudden quiet in the house. Tess looks at her with big brown eyes and raises one doggy eyebrow as if to point out that she should expect nothing less from a Labrador.

‘I know,’ Sarah says aloud, as if Tess had actually spoken. ‘He’s an idiot. What can you do?’

She gives Tess a biscuit and the dog scampers away to her bed in the kitchen. Doors shut inside for damage-limitation purposes, she lets Basil in. He’s not sure whether he’s pleased to be allowed in or anxious about what might be coming next, which gives her the advantage. She takes him by the collar and hauls him into the small downstairs shower room.

He hangs his head and gives out a little whine.

‘It’s your own fault,’ she says. ‘Today of all days, Basil, how could you?’

Still, she thinks, massaging him with lavender-scented, doggy-calming shampoo, at least he’ll smell fresh for our visitor.

He’s early. That’s good.

‘Basil, shush! That’s enough!’ It’s as though he’s never heard a car before: he’s barking, tearing around the kitchen. Tess, glancing up from her bed, isn’t as bothered. Sarah watches from the kitchen window as the dark blue Ford Focus pulls round in the turning circle outside the house and comes to a stop facing the garage. Her heart’s thudding. Well, of course it is. Deep breaths, girl, come on. Be sensible about this.

She opens the door and stands there, holding on to Basil’s collar, while he gets out of the car and she gets her first proper look at him. Tess is curious enough to get up from her bed and she stands next to Sarah, craning her neck to see what’s arrived.

Aiden Beck. It’s been over twenty years.

‘Hi!’ she calls, brightly, gives him a little wave.

The sun’s shining, and just for a change the wind has dropped. It’s not often you could call across the yard and rely on someone hearing you. She doesn’t tell him that, of course.

Basil’s tail is wagging and now the car’s parked it’s safe to let him loose.

‘It’s okay, he’s friendly.’

‘Hello, Sarah,’ he says. His smile is still beautiful. He’s rubbing Basil’s head, patting his side. The dog’s beside himself with joy. Tess has turned and gone back inside already; she’s not so easily impressed.

Aiden comes over to her, kisses her on both cheeks, a hand on her upper arm. He doesn’t look any older, and she’s about to tell him so, but stops herself just in time. Nothing personal, she tells herself. You thought about this.

‘You look great,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ she says, about to deflect the compliment with something disparaging about her jumper, but she’s promised herself that she will think before she speaks, and it seems to be working. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

He’s driven from somewhere, of course, but she has no idea where. There was no real planning, no time to discuss his complicated travel arrangements. She thinks he flew back yesterday. Presumably he’s been in a hotel somewhere; maybe he stayed with friends. It’s none of her business.

‘Yeah, it was fine. It’s good to see you again; it’s been too long…’

‘Come in, come in,’ she says then, not giving him a chance to finish. She’s trying not to stare at him, trying not to be obvious while she’s drinking him in, all the little details: the lines around his eyes, the stubble on his cheek and chin.

She leads him into the kitchen, which is spotless. She’s been cleaning the whole house since Friday, when this whole crazy idea started.

‘I – um – I thought you could go and have a look around the cottage while I make tea,’ she says. The key is on the kitchen table, next to the bowl of lemons and limes. She hands it to him. He’s looking surprised. It felt like a good idea, this: give herself a few minutes to recover. She knew she’d need it, and already it’s feeling awkward. Her face is burning.

‘Oh – okay. Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course. I need to make a couple of phone calls. Take as long as you like; have a good look round. I’ll put the kettle on.’

He goes back out the way they came in. The kettle is full and has only just boiled, because she flicked the switch when she saw the car negotiating the tight bend into the gate. She stands at the sink and watches him cross the yard, heading down the slope towards the cottage that had been an outbuilding and, before that, a piggery. They had converted it into accommodation for Sarah’s father-in-law, but, as it turned out, James Senior had died two days after being admitted to hospital with pneumonia, and he’d never even seen it. She had been thinking about getting a tenant, or maybe advertising it as a holiday let, but her heart hadn’t been in it. She didn’t want someone she didn’t know living on her doorstep, and the thought of having a random selection of holidaymakers didn’t appeal either. So the cottage had been sitting vacant, pristine, for a long time. Sarah had visitors, of course, friends, family – but everyone always stayed in the house.

On Friday, everything had changed. It had taken her by surprise, a rare Facebook post from him, set to ‘friends’ only.

Coming home next week, been a while!! Anyone know of any nice one- or two-bed furnished flats to rent, preferably Yorkshire or North, let me know?

He had had few replies, mostly of the ‘let’s have a beer’ and ‘I’ll keep my eye out, have you tried the paper?’ variety. Then she’d added a comment: You can always stay in my cottage. I’ve been looking for a tenant. Send me a message if you’re interested.

It had taken her an hour to come up with that. Not wanting to sound too keen, just the right level of nonchalance. Five minutes later, she heard a ping:

Hi, Sarah, great to hear from you, how have you been? Thanks for your kind offer of the cottage, I might just take you up on that. I could come to see it on Tuesday if that’s any good? A x

She’d replied quickly:

Yes, that’s fine, here’s my phone number, I’ll be in on Tuesday.

Yesterday, there had been a text from an unrecognised number:

Hi Sarah this is my new mobile number. Will be with you about 11am tomorrow if OK. Thanks again A x

She had been sure something would go wrong. He’d call again, tell her thanks but he needed to be somewhere less remote, or he’d decided to go back to Japan, or wherever it was, after all, or he was going to stay with friends until he found somewhere permanent. She shouldn’t get her hopes up. All this cleaning, while it couldn’t hurt, was pretty pointless and she was wasting her time…

And yet, here he is. She stares at the yard, still, although he has long since let himself into the cottage and shut the door behind him. She gets the teapot down from the shelf, warms it, fetches mugs and the tin of biscuits down and puts them on a tray. Should she put the biscuits on a plate? Or be brave, and get out the cake she’d made? This morning it had felt like too much, too obvious that she was making an effort to welcome him. Too desperate. She leaves the biscuits in the tin.

While the tea brews, Sarah calls Sophie. She answers immediately, as if she has been clutching the phone in anticipation.

‘Well? Is he there?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah says. ‘He’s looking round the cottage.’

‘You left him alone?’

‘It’s not a big place. I think he can probably manage to find his way around.’

‘You should be chatting him up!’

‘He’d run a mile.’

‘I doubt it. The cottage is lovely, and you are too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he moves in today. Has he got all his stuff with him?’

Sarah looks across to the car parked outside the garage. ‘I don’t know – maybe. He’s not said anything.’

‘And? Is he just as gorgeous as you remembered?’

‘Oh, give over. It’s not as though I haven’t seen pictures of him over the years…’

‘Well?’

‘He’s not really changed much, put it like that.’ And my heart’s not stopped pounding, she wants to add. And it’s as though the last twenty-four years haven’t happened. Do I feel the same way? No, it’s worse. Much worse.

Sophie gives her girlish giggle, the one that makes you think she’s twenty-three, not forty-three. ‘It sounds as if it’s going well. I’m glad to hear it, and I can’t wait to meet him and see this man you’ve been obsessed with your entire life.’

‘You keep your paws off.’

‘Don’t worry, darling, I only have paws for George, you know that.’

Basil, who has been waiting at the door, starts barking again. Sarah glances up and sees Aiden crossing the yard towards the house. He is talking on a mobile phone, smiling.

‘Soph, I’ll call you later, he’s coming back. Basil, for Christ’s sake shut up! Bed!’

Basil whines and obliges, but then leaps up again as the door opens and Aiden comes into the kitchen. Sarah puts her mobile down on to the kitchen table. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s great,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe how big it is inside.’

‘Cunning use of white paint, I think,’ she says, transferring the tray with the teapot on it over to the table. ‘Have a seat.’

She pours the tea while he watches her. There is some tension in the air already, or is she imagining it? Is it her? He’s gearing up to tell her that he’s just here to look, he needs to be nearer to London actually, nearer his friends. He has friends, of course. Even though he’s been away for years.

‘I wanted to say how sorry I was not to make the funeral.’

She stops, mid-pour. Looks at him in surprise.

‘I meant – Jim’s funeral, of course. Although I would have come to his dad’s too, if I’d been here.’

‘Oh. That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to come all the way back from abroad.’

‘But I should have come. He was a good friend. What a shock to lose him so young.’

Sarah wonders if he’s expecting her to be upset, or to cry. It’s been three years since Jim died, and actually, when it happened – six months after the car crash that had put him into a persistent vegetative state – it had been almost a relief. Her grieving had been done slowly, painfully, beside a hospital bed. ‘Yes, it was. He was… a great father.’

She can’t quite bring herself to say more than that. And even when Jim had been alive and well, despite being happy and settled and everything else that came with a twenty-year marriage, it had been Aiden she’d thought about before falling asleep, Aiden she’d fantasised about when the mood took her.

He can never know that. Ever.

‘Thanks,’ Aiden says, as she passes a mug across the table towards him and carefully avoids his touch.

Basil has settled under the table, his large behind on Sarah’s foot, which means his head must be resting on Aiden’s. Tess is watching the scene from the sanctuary of her bed in the corner, her gaze wary.

‘So…’ Sarah begins, then stops, with no idea how to continue. Why does this feel so awkward?

‘So,’ he replies, and laughs. ‘Tell me about the cottage. What about rent, bills, stuff like that?’

‘Oh, I wasn’t going to charge you anything. It’s on a separate meter, so I guess you could pay the bill for electricity. And you can stay as long as you like.’

He gazes at her across the table and she’s aware of his eyes, that they are green. Somehow she’d forgotten this detail, despite picturing him in her mind so often.

‘That’s a very generous offer, but not one I’m prepared to accept,’ he says.

It’s an oddly formal way of phrasing it, and the way he’s looking at her is almost cold. ‘Oh,’ she says.

‘You could probably make five hundred a week if you let it out as a holiday cottage. As a residential let, maybe eight hundred a month?’

‘Maybe,’ she says, ‘But I’m not keen on having a stranger living there, and I don’t like the idea of a long-term commitment. Your using it would be ideal.’ To give herself time to think, she changes the subject. ‘So what are your plans? Have you got a job? I don’t even know why you’re moving back.’

Aiden shifts in his seat, moves away slightly. Basil jumps up, then heads over to his food bowl in case something might have fallen into it since the last time he checked. ‘It felt like the right time. I was thinking of doing some freelance work for now, until I find something permanent.’

‘I’m being nosy, sorry.’

‘Not at all. It’s a valid question. What’s it like living here? Do you have good internet coverage?’

‘I’ve got broadband. The wireless even works in the cottage, but the signal’s not as strong. You might want to get your own router.’

‘I could work from home,’ he says.

Sarah’s heart beats faster again. He said ‘home’. He thinks this place is home. ‘Absolutely.’

‘What’s the village like?’

‘It’s great – lovely friendly people. It’s got a few shops, coffee shops and tea rooms, a post office, a Chinese, a chippy, but I steer clear of that one. The pubs are nice. The restaurant in one of them is particularly good, but you have to book. There’s a new village hall, lots of things going on… events… you know.’

He considers this, drinking his tea. At last he puts down his mug. ‘If you don’t like the idea of commitment, we can dispense with a contract. But I’ll pay you eight hundred a month, with a month in advance as a deposit. If you need me to leave, you can give me, say, a week’s notice. How does that sound?’

‘But we’re friends,’ she protests.

‘It doesn’t mean we can’t have a professional understanding over this particular issue. And I’m afraid I’m going to insist on it.’

He’s so serious that she finds herself breaking into a smile. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes.’

And she gives up. ‘All right, then.’

He offers her his hand to shake, and the deal is done. Her heart is beating hard enough, she thinks, for him to hear it. Eight hundred a month.

He smiles, finishes his tea. Then looks up at her from under his brows. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

He doesn’t answer. She has a horrible feeling it’s because he knows quite clearly how obsessed she is.

‘I promise I won’t trash the place, or have noisy parties without inviting you,’ he says.

‘And I promise I won’t ask you to fix the septic tank,’ she replies. His hand is warm, his grip firm.

So it begins. 

Aiden

When the tea is finished, she offers to show you the rest of the house. You accept. You need to see it, to picture where she lives, sleeps, works. How she spends her days. More than that, you need a way to keep the conversation going. You hadn’t expected this to be quite so awkward.

Sarah leads the way from the large kitchen into a living room that’s half the size, with a big corner sofa unit that’s looking threadbare under the white cotton throws. The throws have been put there for your benefit, you realise, as one of the dogs makes a leap for the corner seat that has an indentation in it exactly to his dimensions. She shouts at him to get down, which he does, looking confused. She has a small television in the corner and a large bookcase covering one wall. You like this proportion and what it tells you about her.

As well as the living room, there is a garden room and a conservatory. A downstairs loo and shower, a utility room with the back door leading off it.

‘The cottage has got a washing machine,’ she says. ‘But if you need to dry things you can always bring them in here.’

‘Thanks,’ you say, trying to picture yourself coming in here with a laundry basket when she’s not here. Or when she is.

‘The door’s usually unlocked,’ she says.

You give her a questioning look.

‘I’ve never worried about it. I don’t think anyone locks their doors round here.’

She leads the way up the narrow staircase to the first floor. You are distracted from the close-up view of her arse in those tight jeans by the original artworks on the walls. They are her illustrations for The Candy Cotton Piglet, her first and most successful book. She won awards for the series that followed. The illustrations look so much brighter than the books themselves, and you tell her this.

‘You think?’ she calls, from the landing. ‘I don’t think I even look at them any more.’

You join her upstairs. The house is set into a hillside and is clearly old, with sloping floors and low ceilings. She shows you two of the five bedrooms, one of them still obviously belonging to the absent daughter, Kitty, who must be at university. What about the son, Louis? There doesn’t seem to be much left of his room. He went away to study, then you seem to remember he dropped out after a year. The same year that Jim died. You wonder what happened after that.

‘How are the kids?’ you ask.

‘They’re fine,’ she says. ‘Kitty is doing well. She should be coming home for a visit soon; you’ll get to meet her.’

‘Where’s she studying?’

‘Manchester. She’s doing civil engineering.’

‘And Louis?’

‘This is the bathroom,’ she says, standing to one side.

It’s clear from her wide smile that she’s particularly proud of this room, and it is very nice. A roll-top bath stands in front of the window, down two steps. There’s a shower too, and oak beams. The bath is in front of the window and there aren’t any curtains.

‘Bit public, isn’t it?’ you say, before you think about it.

She laughs. ‘Nobody around for miles,’ she says. ‘And if there were, I don’t think they’d be interested.’

You want to disagree but you’ve seen the flush that’s creeping across her cheeks and you know she’s embarrassed herself, so you restrict your response to a polite smile. Besides, she’s given up on the tour. ‘There are another three bedrooms,’ she says casually. One of them will be the master bedroom – hers alone now, you think – but she has no need to show that off.

‘Where do you work?’ you ask.

‘I’ve got a studio behind the garage. Jim used it as a workshop, but I had some skylights put in and I took it over. I’ll show you another time.’

She heads back downstairs. After a moment, in which you look down the narrow hallway to a door at the end, slightly open, you follow.

‘When are you going to move in?’ she asks.

‘Straight away,’ you say. ‘If that’s not too cheeky.’

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘The place is yours now.’

You head out to the car. She doesn’t offer to help and you’re glad to be on your own again. You drive the Focus back up towards the cottage, which has its own parking space next to the front door. The boot is full: two suitcases, a holdall and a suit-carrier. You unlock the door of the cottage again and enter, this time with a proprietorial air. You collect the luggage from the car and leave it in the hallway, closing the door behind you and standing for a moment, listening to the quiet.

At last: you can breathe.

Nobody knows where you are. Nobody, except Sarah. You are safe here, thanks to her.

Her generosity is astonishing. Perhaps even alarming. But then, she has this cottage and you can understand her reluctance to have a stranger live in it. You’re just surprised that she’s willing to let you take it over, since you’re practically a stranger too. And it is a great space, exactly what you need: a large open-plan living room with a kitchen area at one end; big patio doors that show off a view down into the valley, with nothing but fields, sheep and dry stone walls for the next two or three miles. The furniture is modern and functional, which must be deliberate. Everything is white and clean, all blond wood and natural fabrics. The bedroom is surprisingly spacious, with a double bed, an iron bedframe. She’s even made up the bed, with a dove-grey duvet cover and pillowcases. A small pile of towels sits at an oblique angle on the end of the bed. They look brand new. The bathroom is small and there isn’t room for a bath, just a shower. You don’t mind. A pot plant sits on the windowsill, the depth of which gives you an idea of the thickness of the exterior walls. The plant is green enough to be made of plastic, but, when you investigate, it’s real; the compost is slightly damp. You’ll have to remember to keep it watered; you don’t want to kill it.

Your watch says it’s half-past twelve, although you’re not hungry. You barely slept last night, and you’re too tired to eat. It would be easy to go to bed now, you think, looking at the iron bedstead that looks so comfortable, but if you do that you won’t sleep tonight. You have to stay awake until bedtime. Before that, there are many things you could be doing.

You spend an hour unpacking. Suits, shirts on hangers in the wardrobe. Toiletries into the bathroom. The bed calls you again.

You head back outside, leaving the door unlocked. Better get used to it, you tell yourself. One of the dogs barks as you walk across the yard towards the main house. It’s an excellent warning, of course. You knock on the front door.

‘You don’t need to knock,’ she says, opening the door. ‘You can come straight in.’

‘No, really,’ you say. ‘I can’t just walk in.’

She’s smiling, amused. ‘Everyone else does.’

‘I’m going to go and get some provisions,’ you say. ‘Where’s the nearest supermarket?’

‘There’s a Co-op in town. In the square – you can’t miss it. If you want to do a big shop you’ll have to go to Thirsk.’

‘The Co-op sounds fine. Do you need anything?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘If you need anything for the cottage – or if there’s anything in there you don’t want – just let me know. I keep the bed made up, but you might prefer to have your own sheets… I don’t know.’

‘It’s great,’ you say.

There’s a pause then, because you’re looking at her, and you lose your train of thought. In your defence, the tiredness of the long drive and everything that preceded it is overwhelming. Your eyes have glazed a little, remembering something from a lifetime ago.

‘My friend Sophie is having a bit of a get-together tomorrow night,’ Sarah is saying. ‘You’re welcome to join us. It’s just in the Royal Oak, in town.’

‘Oh,’ you say. Caught out. ‘That sounds nice. Thanks.’

‘Only, you know, if you’re not busy. See how you feel.’

‘Thanks,’ you say again. ‘You’ve been really kind.’

She smiles and you head back up towards the car. A bit of a get-together, you think. It sounded like a casual invitation, and to anyone else it might have seemed she’d felt obliged to ask you, now you’re here. But you’re not anyone else. You’re good at reading people. You know that, however dismissively it was phrased, Sarah really wants you to go. It’s warm in the car and you open the windows as you indicate to turn into the lane. You start to think about what to wear, what to bring. Who Sophie is, and what Sarah’s friends might be like, how they will react to you. And what might happen afterwards.

In your back pocket, your mobile phone vibrates. You check the number and smile before answering. Three calls, already? It looks as if you’re going to be busy.

Sarah

Aiden offers to drive, so that Sarah can have a drink.

It’s a very casual offer, but by the time they have crossed the yard to his car, got in and buckled up, Sarah’s cheeks are burning and she has such a surge of emotion that she thinks she might actually cry. He didn’t mean anything by it, she tells herself, cross at her reaction. She’s not even sure if he knows all the details of Jim’s accident; he wasn’t in the country when it happened. He sent flowers, a card with a really kind letter inside it, his memories of Jim – but all he knows, all he really knows, is that there was a car crash and Jim died after six months without ever fully regaining consciousness. He doesn’t know what caused it.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he says. ‘Is everything okay?’

She can’t bring herself to look across to him. They are halfway down the hill, the headlights illuminating the hedgerows either side of the lane. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, then adds brightly, ‘You’ll like Sophie, everyone does. And George is all right too; he comes across as a bit of an arrogant arse but he’s OK when you get to know him. He’s an MP. Not ours, though. You need to turn left at the bottom.’

He knows, of course, where the square is. Already she is wishing she hadn’t suggested this. She loves Sophie, she is her best friend – really her only friend – but the socialising thing, it’s awkward. She never quite feels comfortable. As soon as she gets out of the house, no matter how much she’s looked forward to it, she instantly wants to go home again.

‘How have you been getting on?’ she asks, to change the subject. ‘The cottage, I mean. Have you got everything you need?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s great. Very… quiet.’

This makes her laugh. ‘What about your job?’

‘I need to make some new contacts up here, but yes – that’s looking good.’

‘What is it you do again?’

There is a pause while he waits to turn into the car park and she thinks maybe he wasn’t listening, but then he says, ‘It’s like a therapy business. Setting up franchises, that kind of thing. Facilitation.’

The car stops and he turns off the engine. Turns to look at her.

‘I’ll tell you all about it another time,’ he says. ‘You look absolutely beautiful.’

The sudden compliment takes her by surprise and chokes her. Nobody has told her that for a long, long time. Only Sophie, but then Sophie thinks everyone’s gorgeous, darling, and it’s not the same. Not the same at all.

As they walk across to the pub, Sarah fights the emotion back down again. It’s hormones, she tells herself. Get a grip! Aiden holds the door for her and she goes inside, into the warm pub with its low ceiling and uneven carpeted floor, and there is Sophie in a black dress that shows off her long legs, and she is smiling and elegant.

‘Sarah, darling! And this must be…’

‘Aiden Beck. Pleased to meet you.’

She kisses him on both cheeks, managing to give Sarah a quick wink as she does so. Sophie introduces George, who is already, by the look of his ruddy complexion and enthusiastic handshake, well refreshed. Becca is there, with Daniel. Laura and Marlie, Paul and Amy, Ian and Diana. Sarah says hello to the ones who catch her eye.

Aiden goes to the bar.

‘He’s a bit gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Sophie says in a loud whisper. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘I’ve hardly seen him,’ Sarah says. ‘He only moved in yesterday. He’s been busy, sorting things out.’

And Sarah has been avoiding him – not intentionally; it’s just that she doesn’t have anything in particular to say. She doesn’t want to harass the poor man. She doesn’t want to give off the impression that she’s lonely. She isn’t; she has the dogs, and Sophie, and her work. And Aiden is an old friend, nothing more.

A small voice inside reminds her that he just told her she was beautiful, less than five minutes ago. It felt like a very personal thing for him to say, after so many years. She wonders if he actually meant it, or if he says it to every woman he’s friends with.

Aiden

You love things like this: the opportunity to meet all these new people in an environment in which they are all unguarded, feeling safe. They do not realise how much they reveal about themselves, and how quickly.

The exception to this is Sarah, who is not at all comfortable. She has some degree of social anxiety, you think. It’s endearing. Considering her career, which was at one point stellar, and how she was at university, how determined and focused and calm, she is very different now. It’s as though she has been wrung out by the world and discarded. You think that’s what getting married and having two children does to you – you become a wife and a mother, and the core part of you is… what’s the word?

Desiccated.

You have seen this time and time again, with clients who have visited you, trying to find themselves. Trying to irrigate the dry land, trying to find a way to grow.

Irrigation is your speciality.

That thought makes you smile.

Her friend Sophie is intriguing, though. She is charming, and mildly flirtatious, looking you in the eye and touching you gently on the arm when she’s talking to you, but she does that with everyone, except her husband. He is a bore, of course, holding court with the other friends who have joined them, laughing like a drain at his own anecdotes and filling everyone’s glasses.

You have been trying to think what it was that you said, just before you got in the car. Something happened, some memory or something you said made her sad. It came off her in waves, the desolation; you could almost smell it.

She won’t admit to it, if you ask. She won’t tell you. It doesn’t matter; you know better than to push someone when they’re in that vulnerable state. You can wait. You’ll find out soon enough.

And the other thing that’s bothering you. Her son – Louis. She avoided your question neatly, distracting you with the bathroom. She doesn’t want to talk about him.

You remember seeing photos over the years, via the infrequent letters and then on Facebook, the children growing up. Holidays, first days at school, parties; Louis with his arms thrown around his mum’s neck. They were close, always close. What has happened there?

Sarah and Sophie are gossiping, heads together. Of the two, you can see that Sophie, tall, with glossy dark hair and an almost effortless elegance, is the more traditionally attractive.

They both look at you.

‘I’m going to find us some menus,’ Sarah says. ‘Would you like another drink?’

‘I’m fine, for now,’ you say. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No, I’ll manage.’

You watch her as she walks across to the bar.

‘You know, I can’t help feeling we’ve met before,’ Sophie says to him, drawing his attention back to the present.

‘I don’t think so,’ you say, and smile. ‘I’m sure I would remember you.’

‘I’m good with faces,’ Sophie says. She returns the smile but it’s not quite made it up to her eyes. ‘You’ve been abroad all these years?’

It feels as if she is trying to catch you out.

‘Pretty much.’

Sophie half-turns to follow your glance to where Sarah is leaning over, trying to attract the attention of the landlady who is flitting between the lounge and the bar. ‘I’d better go and give her a hand,’ she says.

She had been about to say something else, and she’d checked herself. This Sophie has her guard up with you. She is opaque, frosted; maybe you will have the chance to work on that, while you’re here. You suspect it would be worth your while.

Meanwhile, Sarah is not like that at all. You can’t stop looking at her. She glances up and sees you watching, and for a moment you’ve caught her, and you can see right inside.

Sarah

Sarah goes around to the other side of the bar, where it’s quieter, to ask for some menus. They hadn’t planned to have dinner, but it turns out that nobody has eaten and they’re all hungry, so Sophie and George have collared two tables that don’t have a reserved sign on them. What they really want is chips. This is the equivalent of slumming it, for them.

Sarah is glad of the moment away from them, a chance to breathe, to clear her head. She wishes Aiden hadn’t offered to drive. She has had two glasses of wine and actually she’d rather not have any more; she wants to be focused, wants to choose her words carefully, wants to not make a fool of herself.

Something makes her look round, and Aiden is watching her. He doesn’t look away.

‘Sarah?’

She turns quickly and before she has fully registered who it is – bright, intense blue eyes, a beard, rough brown curls cut short – he has pulled her into a bear hug. A proper, breath-stealing squeeze.

‘I thought it was you. How are you?’

‘Will!’ she says, having in that precise moment found her voice again, ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

Will Brewer – of all the people to see here! She thinks for a moment about the last time she saw him. Louis’s twenty-first birthday party… And then Louis had moved out; she hadn’t seen Will since.

And now? Here he is. He seems ridiculously pleased to see her, his grin wide, showing impossibly white, even teeth. ‘I’m great,’ he says. ‘Great. God, it’s good to see you.’

‘So,’ Sarah ventures, her heart still bumping at the shock of seeing him again, ‘have you been away?’

‘I’ve been working abroad,’ he says, still smiling. ‘America, India… I’ve just got back from Cambodia.’

‘That sounds really exciting,’ she says, thinking, He’s not very tanned.

‘Aye, it is. I’ve had an amazing time. Weird to be back, to be honest.’

‘So what are your plans?’

‘Ah, just catching up with everybody. It’s been ages. How’s Louis doing? I’ll have to see if he wants to come out for a beer.’

‘Well,’ Sarah says, ‘you should give him a call.’

When Louis was doing his A-levels Will had always been around; they’d go drinking together, went travelling in Europe one summer. The summer after Jim’s accident he’d even lived with them for a bit and Sarah had been grateful for it, because by then Louis had started withdrawing into himself, somewhere she couldn’t reach. Will always seemed so calm, so thoughtful; she thought he was good for Louis. Someone to listen to him, if he wanted to talk.

Sarah feels another sudden lurch of emotion at the thought of her son, who hasn’t spoken to her since Christmas and then only because he was forced to. And, before that, months without any contact at all.

At that moment, when she and Will are staring at each other and smiling, and Sarah is thinking about Louis, and his twenty-first birthday, Sophie appears at her shoulder.

‘I need another drink. George is being a twat.’

‘Soph,’ Sarah says, ‘do you remember Will?’

It’s quite funny, she thinks, to see it happen in front of her eyes like this. Will’s gaze moves from Sarah’s face to Sophie’s, like a train switching to another track. And Sophie, who had been pulling a face, reacting to whatever crap George has just come out with, visibly straightens and beams.

‘Hello, Will,’ she purrs, offering him her hand.

‘Will is Lorraine and Bill’s son. Remember? He’s friends with Louis.’

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘how are you?’

Sophie doesn’t remember him. Lorraine and Bill aren’t really Sophie’s type of people: Bill is a mechanic, used to own the garage up the road in Holme, and Lorraine was once Sarah’s cleaner, back when she was really busy and didn’t have time to do anything but work. She watches as Will tells Sophie where he’s been, sees the way her eyes light up.

He’s just a boy, she thinks, but he’s not, any more, is he? And he’s good-looking, too.

Sarah leaves them to it. The fact that Will is talking to Sophie, and not to her, is something of a relief.

Aiden

You have spent the past twenty minutes discussing cricket with someone called Ian, who is married to Diana, who seems to lead a hectic life consisting of baking, the library and the church. They’re not religious, though, as they’ve both made a point of saying. They like the church because it’s a place that everyone can get together. You don’t have to believe in God to go. In fact it’s probably easier if you don’t.

The evening has been both more informative and more entertaining than you were expecting. You always like meeting groups of people who know each other. It’s intriguing, as an outsider, to be able to observe them and see all those things most people miss. The glances, the body language, the rise and fall of the conversation. At first sight, this lot seem entirely at ease with themselves and their environment: a happy group of friends who’ve known each other years. They think you can’t see beneath the smiles and the pink cheeks and the in-jokes to where all their resentments and disappointment swell and fester, but you can. You don’t know the nature of them yet, and most of them probably aren’t very interesting anyway, but that won’t stop you finding out.

You’re not in any hurry. Already you can feel yourself fitting in, nestling into the gaps they leave.

Becca and Daniel, inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences, are a bit annoying, but the rest of them are fine. Ian seems all right, with his never-ending tales of sporting glories. But then, when you sat down, you noticed that Ian chose to sit as far away from Diana as he could, and that she has noticed the same thing and has not spoken at all since. She is smiling at a story Becca is telling about the local amateur dramatics society, but she is holding herself stiffly, as if she’s forgotten what to do with her limbs and doesn’t want to get it wrong. Ian has ignored this and carried on talking about the test match. Is he really that callous, or is he just an idiot?

And Sarah’s best friend – Sophie – is a different story. She’s undeniably attractive, with a lithe grace that makes you think she might have been a model once, or a dancer – and yet she is reserved. Holding back. She doesn’t trust you. She is sizing you up, watching you through sleepy, cat-like eyes. You wonder what she thinks of you so far. You have been, of course, on your absolute best behaviour, but that might not make a difference, especially if the look she’s giving you means what you think it does.

She has spent a long time at the bar, but now she is back with another two bottles of wine. She holds out a glass for you, not for the first time, but you stop her.

‘Driving,’ you say. Again.

Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. Something has happened.

‘I ordered chips and cheesy chips, and olives and bread,’ she announces to the table, then she sits down next to you. ‘So, Aiden. Tell me how you and Sarah met?’

You look at Sarah and for a moment your eyes lock. She looks away first. ‘Aiden was friends with Jim,’ she says. ‘We all met at uni. More than twenty years ago.’

Interesting, you think, that Sarah chose to answer the question that Sophie directed at you.

‘I seem to remember telling Jim he should steer clear of you,’ you say, smiling.

Sarah laughs, which is a relief.

‘Doesn’t sound as though you were much of a friend,’ Sophie comments.

‘It wasn’t that. I could see he was besotted with her. I just knew I was in danger of losing my best mate, that was all. Of course, Sarah just ended coming out with the two of us all the time, poor thing.’

‘Did you manage to control your jealousy?’ Sophie asks.

Her question is loaded in every possible way. You give the only answer it’s possible to give that retains a grain of truth. ‘I had nothing to be jealous of.’

Sophie glances at Sarah and her grin is one of self-satisfaction. It feels as though you’ve given something away without realising it. She is going to try and stir things up, you can feel it. You are going to have to watch her closely, or try to get on her good side. You could do this, of course. You haven’t spoken to George other than that brief introduction, but from the way he’s behaving you already know she would stray if she could.

Her type always do.

Turns out that coming back isn’t that bad after all. After tonight, it feels like a whole world of possibilities has opened up in front of me.

These women, the two of them; beautiful, hungry for it. I could have either of them, if I wanted to, if I put my mind to it.

Sweet Sarah; I’ve known her for years, after all. Do I want to go back there again? Maybe not. Things were different back then, weren’t they? But she is going to be useful.

Note to self: don’t screw things up with her.

And sexy Sophie? She’s a player, isn’t she? I can tell. But beneath the charm, the smile, the clear eyes, there is something much darker, more intense, waiting for me.

She wants to play.

Sarah

An hour later, the piece of bread Sarah has eaten has done little to soak up the wine she has consumed and she realises, almost with surprise, that she is drunk. She has been listening to George tell the story of the MP who had asked him whether he could claim expenses for his four-berth racing yacht on the grounds that his constituency included three inhabited islands.

Everyone has heard this story, apart from Aiden, who isn’t listening.

He is resting his hand palm upwards on her knee, under the table, and she has her fingers curled around his. When did that happen? How long has she been holding his hand? Almost as if he senses her awareness, he gives it a little squeeze and withdraws.

Immediately she feels as if she might have imagined it.

She glances up at him. He is laughing at George, but as she watches he looks across the table to where Sophie is sitting. She follows his gaze unsteadily. Sophie is talking to Will Brewer, who is perched on a low stool, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, all his attention focused on Sophie. She says something and he laughs, sits back, rubs his thumb over his eyebrow. He can’t take his eyes off her.

George, thankfully, seems oblivious to it. Not that it should matter, given his history. This time last year, George admitted to a two-year affair with a former model he met at a charity fundraiser. Sophie knows this to be not the only time he has strayed, although it was the first time he admitted it. Just before Christmas, Sophie voiced concern that George was at it again. Nothing has been proven, or admitted. And it’s not as if she would do anything with the information anyway, since she has set a precedent of forgiveness and turning a blind eye.

Sarah thinks Sophie deserves better.

She looks back at Aiden. ‘Would you mind if we headed back soon?’ she asks.

When she gets up to say goodbye to Sophie, Sarah stumbles slightly, corrects herself with a hand on the back of George’s chair.

‘Come here,’ Sophie says, wrapping her in a hug. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

‘Me too. Thank you for asking me.’

Over Sophie’s shoulder, she can see Will waiting for her to let Sophie go again. She closes her eyes. ‘I’m drunk,’ she says.

‘Be careful,’ Sophie murmurs.

‘I will. Don’t worry. Aiden’s driving.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

Aiden

It’s bitterly cold outside in the car park. You support Sarah with your arm around her waist.

She doesn’t say anything until you’re in the car, strapped in.

‘Thank you for not telling Sophie,’ she says.

‘About what?’

‘About you and me. Back in the day.’

The headlights of your car pick out an elderly Jack Russell terrier and his equally elderly owner crossing the entrance to the car park. You wait while the dog crouches for a pee. The old man holds up a hand to say thank you.

‘Long time ago,’ you say.

‘Even so. She thinks Jim and I were some kind of perfect couple, just because –’ She stops abruptly.

‘Just because what?’

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Perhaps she’s forgotten what she was going to say.

You pass a motorbike heading in the other direction, but after that you turn right up the hill, and there is not a soul on the road. You think of Jim, and whether the night he crashed was like this.

‘Who was that lad that Sophie was talking to?’ you ask.

‘Will Brewer,’ she says. ‘He used to hang around with Louis, years ago. I’ve not seen him since Louis’s twenty-first.’

‘He’s been away?’

‘His mum and dad split up. His mum went to Morecambe with his younger sister; his dad went back to Scotland with his older brother. Will got kind of left behind. He’s been a bit of a nomad ever since.’

She is gazing out of the window, although what she’s looking at you have no idea. It’s pitch-black up here, just the car’s headlights illuminating the winding lane. You change down a gear as the gradient steepens.

‘Is he friends with Sophie?’ you ask.

It’s the part of the evening that has intrigued you most: the unexpected arrival at their table of the young man, casually dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. You took that in and the rest of it: the wild hair, the beard, the leather bracelets and the silver nose-stud. He wouldn’t have looked out of place at a festival, or selling knock-off sunglasses on a beach somewhere. But sitting next to the impeccably dressed Sophie?

‘No, they just met,’ she says.

You don’t say any more. You pull up outside the main house, turn off the engine, sit for a moment. From inside the house, you can hear the dogs’ muffled barks. Nothing else.

‘You were holding my hand,’ she says.

You look at her. She turns her head to face you.

‘Yes,’ you say.

There is a brief pause.

‘You want to come in?’

Sarah

Pushed against the side of the kitchen table, Sarah thinks: I want to remember this.

She has forgotten what this hunger feels like. She has forgotten the feel of another person’s hands on her skin, being held, gripped by someone stronger than she is, being kissed hard by someone who tastes, faintly, of wine and distant memories. He smells of some aftershave, clean sweat, warm skin. His cheek is abrasive against hers. All of these things are like a whisper of the past coming back through the fog, falling away again.

Her fingers are numbed by the alcohol, clumsy.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks, against her throat.

‘Mmm,’ she responds, as if she’s forgotten how to speak along with everything else.

‘Come on, then,’ he says, stopping abruptly and leading her by the hand, out of the kitchen.