One moment of carelessness. Four shattered lives.Psychological suspense that explores a labyrinth of lies, manipulation and revenge. Perfect for fans of Louise Jenson and Katerina Diamond.
Literary agent Viola Matthews is sure she’s met Katherine Baxter before.So when her husband and bestselling novelist Samuel Morton introduces Viola to the quiet, unassuming woman he has offered to mentor, she knows their paths have crossed before.The question is where?
As their worlds collide and the bond between Samuel and Katherine deepens, Viola realises she must take control. If Viola is right, then Katherine needs to pay for something that happened twelve years ago
Welcome Page
About The Pupil
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
About Dawn Goodwin
Also by Dawn Goodwin
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For Ted
This is it, Katherine. One more day, then it’s back to reality tomorrow. Come on, you’ve got this.
My pale hands gripped the basin as I stared, unimpressed, at my reflection in the mirror. I’d pulled my long, dark hair into a low ponytail in an attempt at professional chic, but instead it accentuated my sharp cheekbones and made my ridiculously large blue eyes seem cartoonish. I’d only put on a tiny bit of mascara for embellishment, but all I could see staring back at me were eyes like Betty Boop.
I looked away. The wind whistled through the little bathroom window and rattled the door in its frame. In harmony, my stomach groaned hollowly, but I felt simultaneously nauseous at the idea of eating.
I pulled out the hairband holding my ponytail and wrapped it around my wrist. My hair would have to be au naturel today. Okay, that worked better – much more like my plain self. No need to draw extra attention. With a deep breath and one last look, I pushed away from the basin and pulled open the door.
The cacophony of noise filtering up the stairs assaulted my ears instantly.
‘Give it back!’
‘No, it’s mine!’
Thank goodness Paul had left for work already. Besides the racket, he’d hate that I was wearing jeans again.
I rushed downstairs to find Jack and Lily wrestling over a book, the pages of which were close to exploding from the spine, while Bo, our overexcitable cocker spaniel, lay in the corner of the room chewing on a stolen trainer.
‘Hey, hey! What’s going on?’ I positioned myself between the kids and grabbed the book before any long-term damage could be inflicted.
‘He stole it from my room!’
‘I need it for school!’
They both shouted over each other, Lily’s ten-year-old voice reaching a pitch that even a world-class soprano would be proud of, while her eight-year-old brother looked close to infuriated tears.
‘Okay,’ I said, switching into mediator role. ‘Lils, I’m sure he didn’t mean to take it without asking, but, to be fair, you haven’t read this book in months.’ Lily began to object, but I shushed her with a glare. ‘And Jack, you should’ve asked Lils first if you could take it. You would get upset if you found her rifling through your stuff. Now, can we just pack our bags and get off to school please. You cannot be late today.’
I cannot be late today.
My earlier nerves forced aside for now, I wrestled the soggy trainer from Bo and got on with the insurmountable task that was the school run so that I could make my train and then concentrate on me for one last, blissful day.
*
I slapped the typed pages onto the desk, aware of the stupid smile playing at the edge of my lips. Not only had I written those words, but I’d swallowed my anxiety with a gulp of tepid water and read them out loud to a room full of relative strangers.
I skimmed the faces around the boardroom table, looking for signs that they liked it, but was greeted with indifference.
Oh god, they hated it.
I pulled myself up a little straighter in the hard chair, donning my well-worn armour against the inevitable criticism.
‘Okay, thanks Katherine,’ Samuel Morton said with a smile from his position at the head of the long table. Was that pity I could see? Was it as bad as that? I’d stopped openly fangirling over him on about day three of this writing course and, truth be told, I was still a little captivated by him, so the last thing I wanted to see on his lovely lips was pity. ‘Thoughts, anyone?’ He ran his hand over his brow.
‘Um, yeah, it’s… Can I be brutally honest?’ The American man sitting opposite me leaned forward. I think his name was Carl, but I couldn’t be sure.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Samuel replied on an exhale. He looked like he wanted to roll his eyes.
Carl was staring at me with contrived intensity. ‘It’s just that not much happens.’ He scrunched his face up like a gnome. ‘There’s a lot of beautiful words and imagery, but no real journey or plot that I can figure.’ He accentuated the words while his hands punctuated the air.
I chewed on my lip.
‘Yes, I agree.’ A middle-aged woman in a loose-fitting floral blouse and navy-blue trousers that could only be described as ‘slacks’ interrupted the man I had now mentally dubbed ‘The Gnome’. ‘You need more action, less talk. There’s a lot of unnecessary dialogue and not enough story for the readers to get their teeth into.’
She reminded me of Fiona from the film Shrek, not helped by the fact that she had introduced herself to the fifteen-strong group as ‘Foo’ at the beginning of the week. Giving someone a moniker so that they appeared less threatening and intimidating to me was a trick I had learnt in therapy. It was coming in useful today.
‘I quite like it.’ I looked across the table to where a quiet voice had chimed in. ‘It’s… lyrical.’ A mousey, bespectacled woman called Shelley looked sheepishly at the many eyes turned towards her. My husband Paul would describe her as being ‘a few meals ahead’, but she seemed harmless and, so far this week, had been the most reasonable and objective in her comments.
There was silence. I looked down at the pages in front of me, willing myself not to take it all to heart. What else had I expected?
‘Anyone else?’ Samuel pushed.
Apart from Foo tapping her pen on the table, the room remained quiet.
‘Okay, well, for what it’s worth, I think there is promise here,’ Samuel said.
I looked up. Samuel Morton. Award-winning author of intellectual crime thrillers; critics’ favourite; darling of the publishing world. He could see promise!
‘There is some beautiful imagery and I agree that it could be toned down, stripped back a little, but the bones of the plot are there. Pacing is a little… erratic, but it just needs a sharp edit to pull it tighter and reveal the underlying narrative arc.’
I wasn’t entirely sure what all that meant, but he was smiling and there was something in the way he was looking at me that made the floor drop out of my stomach. I raised my eyebrows in what I hoped showed the right degree of gratitude rather than in a weird facial tick kind of way. God, what was the matter with me? I was back to acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.
‘Right, coffee break I think, then it’s Greg’s turn as the last critique of the course.’ Samuel pushed his chair back with a rasp of metal on tiles and headed towards the coffee station.
*
I contemplated a thin line of dirt under my short nails before looking around the table. This was day five of the creative writing course, during which we had listened, shared, compared and evaluated our starter novels. Each of us had come to the table with something different – from romcoms to historical fiction to crime – and, so far, it had hands down been the best week of my life. Five days to put myself front and centre, doing something I loved with people of a similar mindset for a few hours. No talk of children, schools, secondary transfer days, healthy eating. No hiding.
And then there was Samuel. Meeting him had been worth digging into my savings to pay for the course in the first place. This afternoon we had run through Greg’s novel about a man caught up in a fight with the mafia, debating his use of first-person voice and the time jumps he had included, but now Samuel was drawing the course to a close. I zoned in on his lips as he spoke.
‘Writers are selfish creatures. We take our inspiration from everyone and everything around us without permission. Not necessarily asking for anything in return except that little bit of the Muse’s soul to pepper our narrative with life. They say it’s a lonely profession, but I disagree. We create our own companionships, whether the token of our attention is willing or not, whether real or fictional.’ He paced backwards and forwards as he spoke, then stopped and leaned on the table, his fingers splayed.
He scanned the room before letting his gaze fall on me just as I licked my lips. The heat of a blush fanned over my skin.
‘We are always observing, taking notes in our head, wondering if the scene playing out before us can be used and manipulated into plugging that gaping plot hole. We are predators, stalking the lives of others, using and abusing, bending and shaping at will.’ Pulling his eyes away from me, he continued pacing again, his hands embellishing his sentences. I hung on every word. ‘Use what goes on around you, the people, smells, tastes. Use the conversations you overhear or the arguments you witness on a train. Use the taste of your lover’s skin or the physical pain you feel when they leave you. All of it is useful. Make your writing come alive with what you experience and then add a dash of imagination and it will sing.’
A lock of greying hair had fallen over his eyes. I felt compelled to reach out. He swept it casually to the side, then turned back to his audience.
‘Now, without further ado, there is a pub next door and it’s calling out for us to have a celebratory drink before we all go our separate ways. Who’s in?’
A titter of amusement swept around the table before the rest of the group got to their feet and began to pack up, chatting amongst themselves and throwing on coats.
I hesitated and looked at my watch. I was already cutting it fine to catch the train that would get me home in time to collect Lily and Jack from my friend Helen’s house before Paul got home from work. He’d agreed to me taking this week to do the course as long as I could fit it in around the kids’ schedule and Helen had been a godsend in picking them up from school and letting them hang out at hers for an hour or so every day.
But I also didn’t want this week to end just yet and a drink in the pub talking all things literary seemed like an irresistible idea on a Friday afternoon. Perhaps I would get the opportunity to talk to Samuel a bit more too.
As I stuffed my notebook and folder into my bag, internally debating whether it was worth calling in another favour with Helen, I felt something brush against my arm and I turned to see Samuel next to me.
‘You will join me for a drink, won’t you, Katherine?’ he said.
I wasn’t about to say no, since he had asked so nicely. I picked up my phone and made a hasty call to Helen to arrange a sleepover for the kids.
Situated as it was near to Soho, there were already a number of suits spilling out of the bar and into the street, enjoying their first cigarette post-work. Late September leaves swirled about their feet, waltzing with cigarette butts and empty crisp packets.
A long, polished bar dominated the room, illuminated by the rows of multicoloured bottles standing to attention behind the bar staff. Artisan gins and trendy rum brands stood shoulder to shoulder with cheaper spirits in eye-watering hues. The air was heady with a bouquet of aftershave, alcohol and naked ambition, making me almost nostalgic for the days of my youth when bars up north would reek of cigarette smoke, beer and regret.
The writing group congregated around a few tables to the side of the room. I hovered on the periphery, holding my coat in front of me like a shield. The group looked at each other for a moment, no one wanting to be the first to offer to get a round in, not for so many of them in one go. Eventually, The Gnome couldn’t hold out any longer, the pull of the pint proving too much for him to bear.
‘What’s your poison, everyone? I’ll get the first one in.’
Relieved mutterings of ‘make it a pint for me’ and ‘a small white wine please’ filled the air. Conscious of the rumbling of my tummy after a day of little food and too much free coffee, I asked for a gin and tonic, then positioned myself next to Shelley – close enough to follow the conversation, but peripheral enough not to have to engage too thickly. I generally wasn’t one for small talk; I was never sure what adults talked about if not their kids.
I scanned the faces for Samuel. He was standing further away to my left, his back to me, deep in conversation with a man whose name I couldn’t recall. I tried to make out what they were talking about, but their voices were indistinct in the pub clamour.
‘Did you enjoy it? The course I mean?’ Shelley leaned in and whispered at my side. ‘I’m Shelley Low, by the way. We haven’t really been introduced properly.’ She was holding out a pudgy hand to me. I shook it firmly. Her grasp was limp.
‘Katherine Baxter.’ I smiled. ‘I did enjoy it. I’ve come away with a lot of great ideas, although I wish it could’ve been longer. I was essentially looking for validation that I can actually write more than anything else. I didn’t necessarily get that though. We spent so much time talking about everyone else’s work and perhaps we could’ve had more time working on our own stuff, you know? Maybe some more one-on-one time with Samuel?’
‘True.’ Shelley looked like she was dithering over whether to say the words forming behind her lips, then she ploughed in. ‘Please don’t take everyone’s criticism of your work to heart.’ She flushed. ‘I could tell by your face that you were hoping to hear something different.’ She shuffled her feet and avoided looking me in the eye.
‘Was it that obvious?’
Shelley smiled, just as The Gnome began to dish out the drinks. ‘I personally think your novel is really promising and we have to remember that there is an element of competition here.’ She looked at the others standing around us. ‘They’re all looking at each of us and seeing the books that may get published before theirs, so it’s self-preservation to tear others down before building theirs up.’
I felt myself exhale. ‘You know, you’re right, Shelley. We pour ourselves into the words on the page and to hear that the reader is left feeling complacent at best is disheartening. But I agree – they can say what they want because they won’t be the ones offering me a publishing deal.’ I looked pointedly at where Samuel was now holding court over the main group. He looked over and caught my eye. My cheeks warmed. I nodded my head subtly in his direction. ‘That’s who we should be impressing.’
Shelley followed my eyeline. ‘Yes, he’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said. I watched him as he chatted, the way he used his slim hands for emphasis. ‘You know, they say his wife is quite a force to be reckoned with too,’ Shelley added, then took a sip of her drink.
I dragged my eyes back to her. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, she was the one who got him published in the first place apparently.’ Her voice was little above a conspiratorial whisper and I had to lean in closer to catch the syllables. ‘Viola Matthews?’ The name meant nothing to me. ‘Apparently, she supported him financially while he locked himself away writing failure after failure. He fell into the bottle and she propped him up, by all accounts, because she recognised a latent talent. Then he wrote Muses and Starlings, thought it was rubbish and threw the whole thing away in a drunken rage. She salvaged it, sent it to a publisher friend and the rest is history.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Of course he’d be married. But I never would’ve had him down as having struggled. He exuded such confidence when he spoke about his work. My glass was almost empty already and I could feel the gin fizzing in my veins.
Shelley pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I did some background reading on him before the course and came across an interview he did years ago with the New York Times just after his third novel was published. Have you read any of his books?’
‘I’ve read Muses and Starlings, a long time ago now.’
‘I’ve read them all. He’s very good at the thinking man’s thriller, I guess you could call it. He writes with such lyricism and clarity when it comes to character definition. He won the lifetime achievement award at the National Book Awards recently, you know. They don’t give those out to just anyone.’
I narrowed my eyes at her wistful tone. ‘Ooh, Shelley, anyone would think you have a crush on our esteemed tutor,’ I teased.
She giggled lightly. ‘Well, I was rather star-struck when I met him on Monday.’ Her cheeks flushed to a deep beetroot shade. ‘He has a way about him, doesn’t he?’ She was gazing at him now. ‘Of course, it’s been a while since he published anything new. Rumour has it he’s close to finishing his next bestseller.’
I slurped at the last of my drink and looked at Shelley more closely. ‘So what about you? Are you married? Kids?’ I asked.
‘No, just me and my cat. I’m a spinster stereotype. You?’
‘Married, two kids: Lily and Jack. Writing is just a hobby for me.’
‘So, what do you do – I mean, for work?’
I was saved from answering by Samuel approaching us.
‘Ladies.’ He angled between us and I was amused to hear Shelley giggle again.
‘Samuel,’ I replied with a subtle smile.
‘Please, we’re all friends now – call me Sam, much less formal. So, what are your thoughts on the course? Worthwhile? Did you get what you wanted from it?’
Did I imagine his eyes tracking down my visage? I pulled at the open neck of my cardigan.
‘Shelley and I were just discussing that.’ I tried to project a more professional intonation onto my words.
‘Yes, we were.’ Shelley jockeyed herself in front of me and into his direct eyeline. I was amused at her sudden forthrightness. ‘I thought it was very worthwhile and certainly useful going forward.’
I stepped forward so that I was back in contention, the two of us like chess pieces manoeuvring around the king. ‘To be honest, I thought there could’ve been a bit more time spent on our own work – perhaps more one-to-one time?’
‘Well, I’m sure if there is more you wanted me to help you with, then we could arrange to meet outside of the course if it will help?’ he said to me.
‘Oh, that’s so nice of you, Sam. Thank you!’ Shelley gushed, her eyes wide and bright.
Sam tore his eyes away from me to flick a glance at her. ‘Oh, yes, you too Shelley.’
The insipid man whose name I’d forgotten earlier but I now remembered was Greg, interrupted us then. He offered another round and Sam moved away with him to help with the order.
I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket and I excused myself from Shelley to move aside. A text from Paul asking where I was. I kicked myself for not phoning him earlier, but I had been focused on asking Helen to watch the kids first and foremost.
I texted him back to explain that the kids were sleeping over at Helen’s and that I would be home by around 10 p.m., then shoved my phone back in my pocket. I could deal with the fallout tomorrow.
*
The group had thinned by 9.30 p.m. and only myself, Shelley, Sam, Foo, The Gnome and a skinny woman named Lizzie – whose novel told the story of a Nazi woman forced to live in a basement during the war and was disturbingly similar to a certain Anne Frank’s diary – were left nursing our drinks.
Thin Lizzie, who had been throwing Shelley disdainful looks all evening, was wearing a polyester wrap-around dress that crackled with static every time she moved and I feared we would all combust if we got too near to her. There was also a faint whiff of mothballs about her and I found myself wondering not for the first time that week what I had in common with these people apart from a shared dream of being a writer. This had been so far out of my comfort zone that the week carried a haze of the surreal in my head.
Having said that, I had actually surprised myself by enjoying the evening and a quick look at my watch made me realise how quickly time had passed. The group – and Shelley and I in particular – had chatted amiably about writing, favourite authors and what our respective writing plans were now that the course was over and I found myself reforming my opinion of most of them, especially the quiet, shy barrel of a woman that was Shelley. She was knowledgeable and candid in her opinions, but only if pressed, and had a compelling feistiness lurking beneath her timid exterior. She was someone who I could imagine was often underestimated.
I wondered what they all thought of me, what lasting impression I had provided – or if I was as forgettable as Greg.
Echoing my thoughts out loud, Shelley said to me, ‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight – and I wasn’t keen on coming in the first place as I’m not normally very good at this kind of thing. A bit shy, you know… and I don’t suffer fools gladly.’ She looked over at The Gnome pointedly, whose tendency to mansplain everything was beginning to grate on my nerves.
I smiled. ‘You and me both.’
‘You know, we should meet up again. Maybe swap numbers or something?’ Shelley pushed her glasses up her nose again, like a nervous tic. ‘I… I don’t have that many friends with common interests and none of them get the whole writing thing, so to have someone to bounce ideas off would be great.’
‘Sure,’ I replied politely. She reached into her bag for her phone and we exchanged details.
‘Right, well, I better head off. It’s been so nice chatting to you.’ Shelley reached up on her tiptoes and gave me a spontaneous hug, to which I didn’t have time to react, before scooping up her coat and making the rounds to say goodbye to the others.
I knew I should probably be getting home too, so I gathered up my bag and coat.
‘You’re not going, are you?’ Sam asked over my shoulder.
Thin Lizzie and The Gnome were deep in conversation about whether Donald Trump would last out his first term in office. Foo was watching them as if at a tennis match, her head swinging from side to side.
‘Please, stay for one more. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you properly yet,’ he added.
‘It’s getting late,’ I replied, looking at him from under my lashes, wishing I could. ‘I’m sorry, I really need to get back. But it’s been a really fun evening.’
‘I meant what I said earlier. I’d like to carry on working with you if you think it could be helpful?’
‘Really? Wow, yes, that would be fantastic.’
He shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He took out his phone and handed it to me to type in my number. I saved it in his contacts under my maiden name of Katherine Baxter, a pseudonym I had adopted for the course and for writing purposes rather than my married name of Katie Hayes.
‘Well, it was nice to meet you. Travel home safe,’ he said, reaching out his hand and laying it lightly on my arm.
‘Thanks – and you.’
I smiled to myself as I left the pub.
*
I spent the train journey home replaying the week in my head like an old-fashioned show reel. I was so pleased that I had done it. It had taken much cajoling and negotiation to convince Paul that this course wouldn’t be too disruptive for the kids – or him – and that I would still be able to juggle everything at home, along with the extra writing homework I would have and trips into London.
Paul knew that writing was a hobby of mine, but as far as he was concerned, that was all it was and spending time away from home – and some of my savings – on a course seemed frivolous to him. But who knew where this could lead?
As the train rattled through the dark suburbs, I caught myself smiling gormlessly out of the window, dreams swirling around my head like elusive dust particles.
I tried to put Samuel out of my head for the next few days, telling myself that he was just being polite and friendly in offering to help me. Just like I had been when I said I would call Shelley again. It wasn’t likely to happen. I wasn’t one for fostering friendships, especially in these days of social media when it wasn’t easy to keep past mistakes locked out of sight. Besides, when would I find time to see her – or Samuel? I couldn’t imagine Paul being open to me spending my evenings in town instead of at home where I belonged.
Even so, I couldn’t help myself from constantly checking my phone like a teenager for missed calls and voicemails in between loads of washing, dog walks and shopping lists.
Three days after the end of the course, I received a text message:
I’ve been thinking about your book and I’d like to help. Call me, Sam.
That put the ball firmly in my court. Oh God, what now?
That evening I waited anxiously for the sound of Paul’s key in the door. I wiped down countertops that were already clean and mindlessly paired socks as the kids stared, fixated, at their iPads. Not something I would normally let them do before bedtime, especially when Paul was due home at any moment, but my distracted mind couldn’t handle any noise tonight. I’d been jittery with excitement and anxiety since receiving the message, unable to set my mind to anything other than simple chores. It made me realise just how much I wanted to keep writing. It had been a dream of mine when I was younger, but reality had pushed me onto a different career path and the dream was then put in a box on the highest shelf of my mind.
Now I had the opportunity to reopen that box. The kids were at school all day and my time was spent on mundane household tasks and trips to the gym. I had the hours to spare. But I would have to convince my husband that this stay-at-home mum had grander ambitions than domesticity.
The minutes ticked past and still no sign of Paul. I finished the sock sorting and cajoled the kids into the bath. More minutes dissolved away as the water splashed over the rim and toothpaste coated the sink.
Typical that he would be late tonight when I wanted to speak to him.
Eventually, as I was heading down the stairs after sharing bedtime stories and turning out their lights, I heard his footsteps on the gravel driveway outside.
He shuffled in on a chilly wind and slammed the door behind him before looking up at me as I descended the rest of the stairs to greet him.
‘Hey, how was your day?’ I said lightly. ‘You’re later than expected.’ I approached him to give him a light kiss and clocked the unusual smell of beer on his breath.
‘Yeah, sorry, I went to the pub for a quick one with Mike.’
‘Okay, well, dinner is ready when you are – cottage pie. I’ve only just turned out the kids’ lights if you want to pop your head in and say goodnight?’
He threw his coat over the bannister and fawned over Bo for a minute. ‘I don’t want to disturb them if they’re already in bed.’ Then he retreated to the lounge and turned on the news channel.
I warmed the cottage pie and made a green salad, but by now I had almost convinced myself that it was a stupid idea, I’d never be good enough to get published and that I should stick to my domestic responsibilities. Why rock a stable boat?
When Paul wandered into the open-plan kitchen and family room for dinner once he had caught up on the day’s news, I was sitting patiently at the table, Bo at my feet and my fingers tapping at a glass of water.
He sat down opposite me and immediately reached for the salad bowl.
‘Smells good, thank you,’ he said before piling greenery onto his plate.
I went to retrieve the cottage pie from the oven.
‘So how was your day?’ I asked over my shoulder before returning to my seat.
‘Actually, quite good. We won the Intercept account, which is why Mike and I went for a beer.’
‘That’s great news! You’ve been working on that pitch for ages.’
‘Yes, it’s a weight off.’
I watched the top of his head as he shovelled cottage pie into his mouth, a serviette tucked neatly in his lap, his tie still knotted under his collar. His hair had thinned over the years, his scalp naked and vulnerable under the greying strands.
I served up a small portion for myself, then heard the words come out of my mouth before I knew they had formed. ‘I had an interesting day too. I got a text from my course tutor.’
So much for letting it go.
‘Oh yes? Did you leave your pencil case behind or something?’ He chuckled to himself and carried on scooping food into his mouth. ‘This is very tasty. You always do these simple dishes so well.’
‘He really likes my book and wants to help me, see if we can get it published.’ I knew I was exaggerating, but I needed Paul to think there was something to it if he was to agree.
Paul kept eating and I wasn’t sure if he was actually listening, so I carried on.
‘He doesn’t make the offer to everyone.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ His fork finally stilled.
‘Well…’
Before I could answer, he added, ‘And what’s it going to cost?’
I paused. I hadn’t called Sam back yet because I had wanted to talk to Paul first, but that meant I didn’t have a clue how it would work. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I would possibly need to pay him. I crossed my fingers under the table and blagged it. ‘Nothing, it won’t cost anything. He’s offered to help for free – because he says I’m talented.’
Paul looked at me closely. ‘Nothing is free in this world, Katie. And you know the kids have to come first. I’ve just secured this new account and I can’t be leaving work early to pick up the kids from school. It would have to fit in around them.’
And you, right? Don’t do anything that would mean you putting yourself out, of course.
I swallowed my annoyance with a mouthful of salad. ‘It won’t. I would arrange to meet him during the day when the kids are at school and any writing I can do around them too. If I need to do any evenings, well, you’re here most nights anyway, so you could help with getting them off to bed once in a while? They pretty much do it themselves anyway. And, if not, I can ask Helen to help. Besides, it’s not a done deal yet.’
Paul resumed eating.
‘Please, Paul. I really want to do this. This could be my one opportunity to get my book published and you know it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. I will make sure it doesn’t get in the way of our family, I promise.’
I knew by the look on his face what he was going to say.
‘I don’t need to remind you about what happened when you took on too much the last time. We don’t want to go back there again, do we?’
‘First of all, that wasn’t about taking too much on. Secondly, it was years ago and it won’t happen again. I’m a different person now. I have much better coping mechanisms in place.’ I tried to keep my voice even.
He looked sceptical, but I waited, letting him come to his own decision while also making a secret deal with the devil that if he said no, I would do it anyway, a latent, well-buried streak of rebellion flaring in my gut.
‘Okay, but if I think things are spiralling out of control, you agree to call time on the whole thing. No arguments. And don’t get your hopes up – this publishing thing might not happen. It’s just a hobby after all. It might not work out the way you want. Besides, you do such a good job as a mother that I would never be able to fill your shoes here. We need you.’ He smiled at me, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
I exhaled slowly. ‘So, tell me a bit more about the new account.’
*
The next morning, after ignoring the usual whispers and contemptuous glares on the school run as I did every day, I returned to my blissfully peaceful house and, instead of tackling the mess that seemed to evolve and grow like bacteria as soon as my back was turned, or walking Bo, who was patiently ghosting my every step, I spent ages debating how long to wait until I called Sam. It was a fine line between appearing overeager and uninterested. I felt like I was back at school, agonising over the prerequisite number of hours before I could call the boy I liked.
And today in particular I needed some good news.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything properly, my mind focused on Sam and my chest filling with bubbles every time I thought about the idea of beginning this journey. It had been years since I’d done anything for myself and Paul was right in that the last time hadn’t ended well, to say the least. Maybe I was overreaching.
I could feel myself oscillating between self-doubt and eagerness.
By mid-morning I was painfully fidgety, so I grabbed my jacket and bag, clipped on Bo’s lead and headed up the road to the nearest coffee shop for a latte and something unhealthy and comforting.
The place was warm and heady with caffeine and gossip, and as soon as I sat down at a small table with the coffee mug cradled between my fingers, I called Sam’s number, my fingers nervous and trippy on the buttons. I hoped the call would go to voicemail and I had rehearsed a brief message in readiness, but it rang a few times, then Sam answered.
‘Hi Katherine.’ His voice was like warm caramel.
A small child, aged about three from what I could tell, was sat alongside a woman at the table next to me, her finger mining for gold in her nose. As I was about to reply, the little girl turned in her seat and fixed me with an insolent and unwavering glare. She had a picture book clutched in her unoccupied hand. Peter Pan. The sight of it jarred me, bringing to mind another place and time. An unhappy one.
‘Sam.’ Thrown off-guard by the memory, my voice sounded curt and I winced.
‘How are you?’
I took a small breath and turned away from the child to look out of the window. ‘I’m good, thanks. You?’
‘Good, thank you. I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking some more about your book. It has a lot of promise and I’d like to mentor you and help you to refine it. Not an offer I make to anyone, I might add. What do you think? Would you be interested?’
My pulse hopped in my wrist. I could feel the child’s eyes still boring into the back of my head.
‘What do you mean by mentor exactly?’
‘Spend time with you working on it, shaping it, bringing it to its – and your – full potential. I think it could be a very commercial piece of fiction and I would be happy to volunteer my time to help you get it there. Perhaps some of my contacts may come in useful too as we get closer to talking about representation and possible publication.’
My pulse danced. ‘That’s very generous of you, thank you.’ From the corner of my eye, I could see the girl now being dragged to her feet by the tired-looking woman. I turned and pulled a funny face at the girl, who smiled and waved in return. ‘So when do we start?’
‘Ideally, we should meet as soon as possible and discuss your plot line, where you’re at with it, and take it from there. I have a meeting in London next Tuesday first thing, but perhaps we could meet after that? What time works best for you? Would the evening be okay?’
I knew straight away how much juggling that would mean in terms of the kids. ‘Could we make it around lunchtime perhaps? Evenings are difficult for me.’
‘No problem. Let’s meet for lunch at 1 p.m. and talk it over then, my treat of course. I’ll text you the address of a lovely fusion restaurant I like, near to where the course was held. Does that work?’
‘Great, looking forward to it.’
‘Me too.’
‘See you next week.’
‘Until then, Katherine.’
I cut the call, then stared out of the window, my mind whirling and my heart pounding in my ears.
He liked it. He liked it enough to give up his time to mentor me.
Bo pushed his head into my lap and I stroked his long ears tenderly. I could feel myself grinning as I watched miserable-looking mums shuffling past the window, pushchairs and toddlers grasped firmly in their hands. All I felt was a warm glow rising from my toes to my throat as I allowed myself to think about what this might mean for the future. For my future.
*
I put the key in the front door and pushed it open. Stooping to pick up the pile of mostly junk mail on the carpet, I tossed my keys onto the small table in the hall and kicked the door shut.
I unclipped Bo’s lead and smiled as he wriggled and wagged at me, his tail threatening to sweep him off his feet in pure gratitude for our little excursion before he wandered off. I stood for a moment, letting the sounds of silence wash over me. Weak sunlight filtered through the lounge door to my left and snaked across the pale beige carpet. I kicked my shoes into the pile abandoned behind the door and headed into the kitchen at the end of the hallway.
The dining table was covered in Beano magazines, coloured pencils and scraps of paper, the kids leaving a trail of gleeful destruction wherever they went. Over the backs of the chairs were a number of ties flung from around Paul’s neck at the end of each day. Tea towels and empty glasses littered the countertops. But all my eyes could see was my old laptop tucked into the corner of the sideboard, waiting patiently for me to open the lid and carry on writing. My head buzzed with ideas for where to take the narrative next, how to improve it and make it sing, but the house demanded that I tidy and clean before the family returned and made their mark again – and before Paul tutted and asked pointedly what I had been doing all day or if I’d had one of those days again.
I headed over to the fridge and poured myself a tall glass of orange juice, then stood staring out of the patio doors, drink in hand.
‘Here’s to me,’ I said out loud to the drab sky, before taking a big gulp. Rain clouds were building, casting a grey sheath over the footballs and Nerf guns lying abandoned on the lawn outside.
Putting the glass down on the table, I headed into the lounge, grabbing the phone from its cradle as I went. I slumped back against the couch cushions and closed my eyes. The faint sirens and muffled street noises filtering through the windows were familiar and comforting, but I felt restless, buzzing as my mind still whirled with possibility. I knew I was getting ahead of myself, but it felt so good to be excited, to be hopeful about something. I had to tell someone.
Helen’s number went straight to voicemail, but I didn’t leave a message. She was probably at the gym or the hairdresser.
I chewed on a piece of skin sticking up from my cuticle, then sat up straight and pressed another familiar sequence of numbers into the handset. It rang for quite a while, which was to be expected. I could picture my mother heaving her bulk out of the well-worn chair and shuffling towards the phone in her slippers.
Her husky voice finally answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Mam, it’s me.’
‘Oh.’
I was used to the lack of enthusiasm.
‘How are you?’
‘Been better.’
‘How’s your hip?’
‘I’m managing.’
‘I’ve got some news that might cheer you up?’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Er, I… um…’
‘Stop stammering. You sound like a fool.’
I swallowed. This had been a mistake. Talking to Linda Baxter always was, sadly. ‘I’ve started writing again.’
‘What the hell for? I thought you’d given all that up years ago.’
‘Well, I had some time and an idea, so I started writing something. Actually, I went on this writing course and the tutor thinks it’s good. Really good. He’s offered to mentor me to see if I can get it published. He’s a famous author himself, so I think he knows what he’s talking about. This could be huge, Mam.’
‘Waste of bloody time. What does Paul think of it all? Surely you’d be better getting yourself a proper part-time job, Kathy?’
My teeth set on edge. I hated it when she called me that.
She continued. ‘That’s you all over, isn’t it? Always had your head in the clouds. Who’s this writer then? Have I heard of him?’
‘It’s Samuel Morton.’
‘That crime writer?’ She sounded vaguely impressed. ‘So what’s your story about? Oh god, you haven’t gone and written something flowery, have you? I divvent think I could bear any of that literary nonsense.’ My mother’s northern accent grew stronger the more riled she got. The sigh coming down the phone was heavy with impatience.
‘No, I haven’t. It’s a thriller about an affair.’
‘Eeh, I could tell you a thing or two about that.’ She tutted audibly. ‘Mentoring, eh? Doesn’t sound like this Morton fella is gonna dae very much if you ask me. Talk to me when you have a publishing deal, Kathy, or sold the TV rights to that Reese Wetherspoons woman. Now I’m missing the start of my programme.’
I could hear heavy breathing in the background.
‘How’s Bert?’
‘Same as ever. Does nothing but fart. Come and visit him if you really want to know, if you can be bothered.’
‘I will, soon. It’s just that Paul is busy at work at the moment.’ The excuse fell like a dead weight into the silence on the other end of the line. ‘Go on then. Go back to your programme and give Bert a kiss from me. I’ll speak to you soon. Love you.’
But the line was already dead, leaving a pall of disappointment hanging low in the air. Surely she knew what day it was, but she hadn’t said anything. In my head, I knew that in calling her today of all days to tell her my news, I had subconsciously been giving her an opportunity to say something, anything, about that one decision I had made all those years ago that had started everything – my move to London, meeting Paul, Imogen…
My brain refused to take another step. One of the reasons I had started writing again was so that it wouldn’t have to, because in creating another, albeit fictional, world, I was pulling myself out of the one I had created in reality, even if just for a little while.
*
3 October 1990
Aged 10 and a bit
Brilliant day. Got my English homework back. The creative writing one about describing a moment in time. I wrote about eating a chocolate eclair, just ’cos I like them. Anyway, I got 19/20 from Mrs Wallace, who normally doesn’t even like me, and when I told Mam, she read it and loved it! Says I’m a really good writer and that all that reading I do is paying off. She’s told me that before and is always sticking my stuff on the fridge and showing it to Norma next door (who’s probably sick of hearing about it). Maybe I could be a real writer one day – of actual books and stuff. Mam was really proud of me and that made me proud too. She says she’ll show Dad when he gets home, but it’s my bedtime now and he’s not home again. He hasn’t been around much lately, and when he is, there’s always a lot of arguing downstairs. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. Mam keeps mentioning someone called Brenda. I think she works with Dad. I’m not sure what it’s all about, but Mam doesn’t smile as much as she used to, that’s for sure. She’s always angry at something. Anyway, being a writer would be a pretty cool job, wouldn’t it? Imagine, you’d get to write your own stories all day, maybe in your pyjamas! Eating eclairs!! Brill! Oh, I can hear Mam coming up the stairs. I better get to sleep.
I rushed out of Covent Garden tube station, aware that I was running ten minutes late after my train into Waterloo was delayed. Where I lived in Hampton Hill wasn’t far out of central London, but on days like today, with signal failures and leaves on the track, it would’ve been quicker to drive if I’d had the guts to tackle London traffic and the wherewithal to find parking.
I’d agonised over what to wear ever since I had received Sam’s text giving me directions to a fusion restaurant called Coriander near to Covent Garden. Not my usual neck of the woods, this far out of suburbia, but sometimes you had to step outside your comfort zone in order to make a change, right?
The idea that I was finally on the verge of something potentially life-changing still made me buzz, but I kept telling myself to play it cool, don’t appear too eager, keep my hopes in check.
In preparation, and so that there’d be no nasty surprises, I’d looked up the menu of the restaurant online that morning and checked out the prices – even though Sam had said it would be his treat. I only had my monthly housekeeping allowance and I didn’t want to have to ask Paul for extra. He needed to believe that this wouldn’t impact him in any way if I was going to be able to carry on with it. Not that we couldn’t afford it; he just liked us to live as frugally as possible and save for retirement. He’d always been sensible that way, just like his father before him, which had meant that his parents were minted before they died. A pity that they had never got to spend their hard-saved money before the end.
The idea of fusion food was alien to me, apparently lots of strange dishes with difficult to pronounce ingredients and not a pasta pesto or chicken nugget in sight. The most exotic thing I had in my daily diet was halloumi, but I could chalk all of this up to adding to my world knowledge. It would all be useful in a plot one day.
As I walked at pace, I could feel the light floral material of the dress I had chosen sticking to my legs with static. Maybe it was the wrong choice after all. It dated back to my teaching days, light enough that I could move freely in the nursery but long enough that it wasn’t showing too much leg, and the floral pattern had seemed a perfect match for today, teamed with my old and bruised leather jacket that Paul hated. But now I worried that the dress was making me look dowdy and mumsy rather than edgy and cool.
Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about a muffin top or bulging belly. All those dog walks with Bo and trips to the gym had kept all of that in check and I was careful to not let things slip as I got older. Besides, Paul would tell me if I did. On cue, my stomach grumbled, not helped by the greasy aromas of the fast-food shop I was passing.
A light drizzle was coating everything in a film of grimy damp. I had found an umbrella in the depths of my bag, but one of the spokes had snapped, making it tilt at an unnatural angle so that I could feel the drizzle spitting at my face.
‘Shit,’ I muttered.
Trotting as best I could in the black strappy heels I had chosen, I dashed across the street towards the restaurant, skipping over puddles as I went. I paused in the doorway to catch my breath, calm my flaming cheeks and slow my nervous pulse.
I caught a glimpse of Sam through the glass door. He was staring at his phone, looking relaxed and in control while sipping on a crystal tumbler of what looked like whisky. In contrast, my face reflected back at me in the door looked wide-eyed and manic. I took another deep breath to steady myself and pushed through the door, attempting to exude, on the outside at least, a similar calm to him, even if my heart was hammering out a reggae beat on the inside.
Cool and calm… cool and calm…
A waiter approached with intent, but I smiled politely and indicated where Sam was sitting before weaving through the tables towards him. He had not looked up from his phone as yet. I could see his scalp through his salt-and-pepper hair, perhaps not as lustrous as I had originally thought, but he certainly hid it better than Paul did. It was a little imperfection and I found it endearing, making him seem less intimidating.
‘Sam, how lovely to see you again.’
He raised his gaze to me and immediately broke into a smile of his own, lines wrinkling around his eyes as he got to his feet.
‘Katherine, you look lovely.’ There was that butterscotch voice.
Get a bloody grip, Katherine. He’s just a man – and you’re both married.
He came around the table to give me a brief, airy kiss on the cheek, before indicating the seat opposite him with an outstretched hand.
I placed my handbag under my chair and shrugged out of my damp coat. The hovering waiter whisked it away instantly.
‘So,’ Sam said as I sat down. ‘Something to drink?’
‘White wine would be lovely, thank you.’ How uncharacteristically brazen of me.
I crossed my legs under the table and managed to crack my knee on the leg, bringing sudden tears to the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away as he consulted the wine menu, then summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘This rain – it’s miserable, isn’t it?’ I said.
Oh God, have I really opened with that?
‘Quite.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at me in amusement. He had a way of sweeping his eyes over my face that made me feel like he was studying me, as though trying to see into my deepest corners and then filing away his discoveries. I felt unsettled and twitchy, like a specimen under a microscope, but thrilled at being worthy of such interest all the same.
I looked away, taking in the people around me and the restaurant itself for the first time. ‘This looks nice.’