The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller
The Girl You Gave Away
An absolutely gripping psychological thriller
Jess Ryder
Books by Jess Ryder
The Girl You Gave Away
The Dream House
The Ex-Wife
The Good Sister
Lie To Me
Contents
Prologue
Part I
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
Part II
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part III
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
The Ex-Wife
Jess’ Email Sign-Up
Books by Jess Ryder
A Letter from Jess
The Dream House
The Good Sister
Lie to Me
Acknowledgements
For my mother
Prologue
Erin
Now
I should have told Tom on day one. That’s the main thought that swirls around my brain as I sit in the police cell. My life is bisected by this terrible mistake – before Tom knew and after he found out. I could have sorted out the other difficulties, enormous as they were, if he’d been on my side, but I never gave him the chance. And he was so adamant back then, so sure of his own rightness.
‘Promise you’ll never deceive me, Erin.’ That’s what he said the night before our wedding. ‘I won’t be able to deal with it. Betray my trust just once and our marriage will be over.’
I could have – should have – told him then, but I was a coward. The registry office was booked, the reception organised, the honeymoon paid for. And most importantly, Oliver was already growing in my womb. I’d found someone who wanted to spend the rest of their life with me, who wanted to be a father to my child, and I didn’t want to risk it. I kept my mouth shut, and then it was too late.
The cell feels chilly, even though it’s warm and sunny outside. I lift the base of my spine from the bench, arching my back upwards to stretch out the pain. How long have I been waiting here? It must be several hours. Time is a moving object I can no longer keep hold of.
They’re gathering more evidence, I suppose. Or letting me sweat it out. They have twenty-four hours to question me, then they either have to charge me or let me go. Am I witness or suspect? The detective knows I’m lying, but he can’t work out why. If he asked me to go back to the beginning, the answer would be obvious and we’d have this wrapped up in a few minutes. But so far, he’s only asked about what happened this evening, between ten and eleven p.m.
I’m not going to help him. I’ll stick to my story, no matter what. I want them to charge me – I’m going to insist. It’s the only way I can atone for my real crime, even though I did nothing illegal all those years ago. Back then, giving my baby up for adoption seemed the right thing to do. I believed I was solving a problem, not compounding one. That’s how naïve I was. I never once thought about what might happen when the girl grew up.
Part I
Chapter One
Erin
January 2020
It was my fortieth birthday and everything seemed under control. I was pleased with my new haircut, the low-carb diet had done the trick and the slinky dress I’d been persuaded to buy was no longer clinging to my midriff. Not too bad for my age, I thought as I studied myself in the wardrobe mirror.
We were having a party – a big one for a big birthday. I would have been perfectly happy to spend the day with just Tom and the kids. A meal at our local Italian, a trip to the cinema perhaps. But no, my husband insisted we had to celebrate with all our family and friends. I came up with loads of reasons why it wasn’t feasible. Pressures at work, the unpredictability of the weather at this time of year, lack of inside space, Oli’s revision schedule, my mixed feelings about hitting the big four-zero … Tom swept every one of them aside.
He was downstairs, masterminding proceedings, lapsing every so often into teacher mode. The kids were cooperating for once. Oli had put aside his history books and donned a shirt. Even Chloe hadn’t protested when I’d vetoed the torn-off shorts over purple fishnets. Outside, the sun was about to burst through the clouds and the wind had dropped. The party was happening, and to my surprise, I was feeling excited.
I didn’t do birthdays, as a rule. I told people I hated being the centre of attention and didn’t want them to make a fuss (although I sometimes felt hurt when they took me at my word). It was hard, pretending that I didn’t want people to show they loved me. Poor Tom couldn’t understand it; he called it a phobia and put it down to a fear of growing old. But it was nothing to do with that.
Other people’s birthdays were fine. Actually, they were a bit of an obsession of mine. I could reel off the birthdays of friends, relations, neighbours, colleagues, even people I hardly knew. I could be relied on to send flowers, cards and texts, and regularly brought doughnuts into work. It was my special talent, remembering everyone. I never needed reminders from Facebook.
It was obvious to me why I did it. I’d made a secret bargain with God. By celebrating everyone else’s birthday and refusing to celebrate my own, I was absolved from ignoring her birthday. I didn’t really ignore it, of course – that was impossible. As April approached every year, I felt anxious about flipping over the kitchen calendar, knowing the date was going to stare at me for four weeks, circled in heavy invisible pen. When the day dawned, the pain always came with it, as cold and incisive as a paper cut, but I kept it to myself.
As I applied the finishing touches to my make-up, I had no idea what fate had in store for me that afternoon. Everything was jogging along smoothly. A small team of caterers were beavering away in the kitchen, assembling tiny skewers, garnishing crostini and warming mini quiches. There was a heated marquee in the garden, accessed via the dining room. A hideous blue carpet had been laid over the grass; white plastic chairs were clustered around rickety tables adorned with floral arrangements. There were pink and silver balloons everywhere. It was like a wedding for one.
‘Mum! You coming down or what?’ It was Oli’s voice, deep and resonant although he was only just eighteen.
‘In a minute!’ I shouted back.
‘Dad says hurry up!’
‘I’m coming, okay?’
I squirted perfume behind my ears and on the inside of my wrists. The bedroom clock told me there were twelve minutes to kick-off. Someone was bound to arrive early and I needed to be at the door to hug and air-kiss, to gather up the inevitable boxes of chocolates and potted orchids. We’d said no presents on the invit
ations but I knew most people wouldn’t take any notice.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang and my stomach clenched, reminding me of when I was in labour with Chloe. There was a knot in her umbilical cord, and every time I had a contraction it tightened and her heart rate went down. That was how I felt then, as if somebody was squeezing the air out of me. I thought it was excitement, but maybe it was a premonition. I stood up and pushed my feet into my new pointy-toed shoes, already knowing I’d have blisters by the end of the day.
‘Wow!’ said Tom as I tottered down the stairs. ‘You look amazing.’
Our first guests smiled up at me from the hallway. I was handed a card and a bouquet of yellow freesias. ‘Oh, thank you, you shouldn’t have.’ I smelt the flowers appreciatively. ‘Please go through to the dining room – Oli will make sure you’ve got a drink and Chloe’s on coat duty.’
‘If we can drag her out of her room,’ muttered Tom as our neighbours shuffled out of earshot. ‘You girls are as bad as each other. God knows what she’s doing up there.’
‘Being a fourteen-year-old,’ I laughed. ‘Get me a glass of something, will you? Cola or elderflower. Oh, and a couple of canapés to settle my stomach, please.’
He gave me a quick kiss on the mouth. ‘No need to be nervous. You’re not a kid; you’re properly grown-up now.’
‘Middle-aged, you mean.’
‘Not at all. People are living into their nineties these days, which means you’re about five years off.’ He winked as he walked away. I wanted to run after him, to give him an extra kiss, but the doorbell rang again.
I flung open the door to be greeted by a sea of familiar faces: Asha and Holly – the Girls; Asha’s husband Joe; Hilary, who manages my nursery business, and her partner Rebecca; Mark and Steve, who play five-a-side football with Tom, and their wives, whose names I’d forgotten. Everyone was arriving at once.
‘Woo-hoo! It’s the birthday girl!’ screamed Asha. Hilary waved a bottle of champagne – a strange choice when she knew I didn’t drink.
‘I was told this was a fortieth,’ added Joe smoothly, ‘but you don’t look a day over twenty-one.’
‘Oh shut up, for God’s sake.’ I slapped his arm playfully as he crossed the threshold. ‘Come in, everybody, lovely to see you! Mwah! Mwah!’
The knots in my stomach loosened as I realised it was going to be okay. And it was more than okay; it was really enjoyable. For the next two hours, anyway …
* * *
It was around four and the party was still buzzing. Hundreds of canapés had been consumed and the utility room was overflowing with empty bottles. Ribbons of conversation wound across the room, fastened with bows of sudden laughter. I’d abandoned my agonising shoes a while ago and was drifting barefoot from group to group, hugging everyone and pretending I could hear what they were saying.
It was wonderful to see so many of my people all in the same place. At one end, there were the girls from work, who were dancing in the marquee to our favourite nineties hits, waving their wine glasses and stopping every so often to pose for a selfie. At the other, there was Tom’s mum and two of her elderly sisters, who had escaped to the lounge and were wedged together on the sofa, gossiping and drinking tea. In between were our various friends, gathered over the years like crops from different fields. Tom’s university mates, women from the mother-and-baby group I’d joined when Oli was born, local acquaintances, a smattering of neighbours. Asha and Holly, of course.
No extended family on my side. I’d been waiting for somebody to remark on it, and already had my excuses prepared. ‘My parents live a long way away … They don’t like big gatherings … I’m going to visit them soon for our own celebration.’ All lies – well, at least the last two. Mum and Dad moved out of my childhood home and retired to Cornwall a few years ago. I had their address and a phone number, but both sides understood they were only to be used in emergencies.
Asha and Holly were sitting at one of the plastic tables, talking too intently for a party. It looked like Asha was giving Holly some counselling. Joe had gone in search of more wine, which I thought was probably a bad idea. When Holly was pissed, she spiralled into rants of self-loathing. She had been planning to bring her new chap today, but he’d ducked out at the last minute. Holly was divorced and childless, which she felt particularly bitter about.
I tried to work out the content of their conversation from their body language. Asha got up and patted Holly on the head before stepping into the house, presumably heading for the downstairs loo.
‘Hi, how you doing?’ Tom appeared at my side as if from nowhere.
‘Great. I’ve eaten too many chorizo puffs, but hey …’
‘Sorry I haven’t seen you. I’ve been circulating. He rubbed my back thoughtfully. ‘Want a dance? Oli’s done a great job with the playlist. It’s all our fave raves.’
‘Maybe later. I haven’t talked to the Girls yet. Poor Holly was stood up. She nearly didn’t come today – can you believe it? I feel I ought to relieve Asha, you know.’
‘Just don’t neglect your other guests. If you want me, I’ll be on the dance floor, chatting up your nursery girls.’
‘You dare!’
He kissed me and disappeared into the heaving marquee. I was summoning up some words of comfort for Holly along the lines of ‘Who needs men anyway?’ when Asha returned.
Ah … the Moment. There should have been a crack of thunder, the voice of God booming above the party music. But my destiny arrived in a small red envelope.
‘I found this on the doormat,’ Asha said. ‘A birthday card, I guess. Hand-delivered.’
‘That’s weird. Why didn’t they knock?’
‘It’s probably a neighbour, having a dig about not being invited.’
‘But we asked practically the whole street. Tom insisted. He said it would stop us getting complaints.’
Asha shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe it dropped out of a present? Anyway, I’d better go back to Holly. She’s not in a good place.’
‘I’ll come over in a sec.’ Asha thanked me and threaded her way back to the table. Without a second thought, I ripped open the envelope and took out a birthday card. I stared at the champagne glass overflowing with bubbles and the silver ‘40’ in the top corner. But it was the message inside that made my heart jump into my throat.
Happy birthday, Mum!
With love from the girl you gave away xxx
Chapter Two
Erin
July 1994
I’m in the park with Asha, Holly and a thousand other teenagers. My ears are buzzing, the sound system is beating through my ribcage; I can sense the touch and smell of strangers’ sweaty bodies as we jump up and down to the music, fist-pumping the air, screaming with dry throats.
We’re watching Acacia Drive: three lads who used to go to our school and who are now – miraculously – all over the indie charts. They’ve come home to headline Summerfest, a weekend celebration in the local municipal park: puppet shows, kids’ art workshops, food stalls, clowns, jugglers, street artists, storytellers and musicians, all culminating in a free live concert on a proper outdoor stage. It’s the first time anything even remotely exciting has happened in Camford, a boring market town plonked in the middle of even more boring Essex countryside.
To begin with, Mum and Dad said I couldn’t go to the Sunday gig. It was on too late, I was too young, it would be overcrowded, there would be pickpockets and drug-taking and nasty people in the bushes waiting to leap out and attack me. And most crucial of all, I had school the next day.
I argued my case. It was nearly the end of the summer term, lessons were winding down, it wasn’t an exam year and we were talking about a concert in the local park, not Glastonbury. But they wouldn’t relent, not matter how hard I tried to reassure them. As the weekend approached, things were looking shaky for me. Asha and Holly were going, as were loads of other people in my class. Basically, anyone even a tiny bit cool would be there. If I didn’t turn up, I’d
have the piss taken out of me all summer.
But luckily Asha’s dad came to the rescue, offering to give the three of us a lift to the park and pick us up at ten p.m. sharp when the concert’s scheduled to end. It was a stroke of genius. If Asha’s parents, who are even more obsessed with homework and good grades than mine, were happy to let their fourteen-year-old daughter off the leash for one evening, mine couldn’t argue.
I smuggled out some party clothes and spent the afternoon at Holly’s house getting ready – we did each other’s hair, nails and make-up and I borrowed a pair of her heels. Then we tottered off to Asha’s. Her dad was a bit shocked when we turned up at the house all dolled up, though he didn’t say anything, just herded the three of us into his car and drove us into town.
But we’ve made it, we’re actually here. We push and shove our way forward to get a decent view. The support band were a bit dull, but Acacia Drive are amazing. I keep trying to imagine them as third years, wearing the Greenfield uniform, running down the corridors or playing football in the yard … It wasn’t that long ago and now they’re famous. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.