The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 4

  ‘So … the secret’s out now, is it?’

  ‘Not completely,’ I said warily. ‘So please don’t—’

  ‘If I’d wanted to tell your husband, I would have done so years ago. It doesn’t surprise me for a moment that you’ve still not confessed your sins.’

  ‘Mum … it’s not the nineteenth century. It wasn’t a sin, it was a mistake.’

  ‘Well that’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘If you’d supported me, they would have let me keep her.’

  ‘Oh yes, you’d have had me looking after her while you gallivanted around with your nasty friends, getting drunk and taking drugs.’

  ‘No! I only carried on because I’d lost her. If I’d been allowed—’

  ‘Stop rewriting history, Erin.’ Her tone was razor sharp. ‘You didn’t want that baby and that’s—’

  ‘Yes I did!’

  ‘Well then you should be pleased she’s found you.’

  ‘Yes, I am … I am,’ I replied, although I knew I wasn’t fooling her. We had grown apart over the years but she still knew me well. She understood how conflicted I was feeling, but I sensed she wasn’t in the slightest bit sympathetic. On the contrary, she was glad I was getting my comeuppance at last.

  ‘How are Oliver and Chloe?’ she asked after a pause. ‘Please send them our best wishes, say we’re thinking of them … if they remember who we are, that is.’ She sighed. ‘Now, your father’s waiting to go on this walk. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Mum, can’t we just … talk?’

  ‘If you want to check in from time to time, that’s fine, but don’t call if it’s only to accuse me of something I haven’t done. I’ll keep praying that you sort your life out once and for all. Tell the truth, Erin; it’s the only way you’ll find peace. Goodbye.’

  The line went silent as another little part of our relationship died.

  The moment I put the phone down, there was a knock on the door, as if the person outside had been listening, waiting for the call to end. My stomach flipped as I tried to remember whether I’d said anything incriminating.

  ‘Yes?’

  The door opened and Hilary, my right-hand woman, entered. She’d been with me from the beginning and managed all the company finances. Her eyes were twinkling beneath her severe brown fringe as she approached my desk. I stared at her curiously. It wasn’t normal to see her smiling so much, and the bucket of cold water she usually brought to throw over my plans was conspicuously absent.

  ‘What’s up, Hils? Everything all right?’

  ‘Have you read the email?’ She clasped her hands together in excitement.

  ‘No, I’ve been on a call. What email?’

  ‘I won’t spoil it,’ she beamed. ‘I’ll leave it as a surprise.’

  ‘I hate surprises, you know that.’

  ‘You won’t hate this one.’ She turned to go. ‘I’m so happy for you, Erin. So happy! I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a celebratory cuppa.’

  As soon as she closed the door, I reached for my phone again and tapped into my work emails. None of the message headings jumped out. There were meeting notifications, a follow-up report on an internal investigation, a note from a parent who felt they weren’t getting enough feedback about their child’s development, some budgets I needed to look at it, a couple of updates from the local Chamber of Commerce that I never seemed to get around to reading …

  What was Hilary talking about? I began to feel uneasy. My upper lip started sweating. I told myself to calm down – it was okay, Hilary had said it was something worth celebrating. I paused, thinking. Most people would regard finding a long-lost daughter as worth celebrating … What if she’d emailed me?

  My spam folder, that was where it would be. Heart thumping, I clicked into the folder, my eyes flicking through the junk mail, but there was nothing significant there. Confused and panicking, I stood up, pushed my chair away and marched out of the office.

  Hilary was standing in the kitchen area, prodding a tea bag in a mug. ‘Congratulations!’ she said. ‘So well deserved.’

  ‘I can’t find the message you’re talking about.’

  ‘You can’t? But they emailed me this morning.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The Chamber of Commerce.’

  A wave of relief rushed over me. It was a work thing.

  ‘I put your name forward for the Woman of the Year award, and you’ve made it to the final three.’ She stirred her tea and beamed at me. It’s a new category in the annual business awards. The ceremony’s in March at the town hall, the usual black-tie dinner – some celebrity I’ve never heard of is the compère. I’ve taken the liberty of buying a table; hope that’s okay. You can decide who you want to bring, of course, but maybe we could chat it through first? I’ve had a few ideas, people who might invest …’

  But I wasn’t listening. All I was thinking was: thank God this has nothing to do with my secret. I’m safe.

  * * *

  ‘Woman of the Year?’ Tom echoed when I told him over dinner. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s the Chamber of Commerce, so it’s about businesswomen,’ I replied, twirling a strand of pasta around my fork. ‘There aren’t that many of us in the area; I doubt there were a huge number of entries.’

  ‘Come on, don’t put yourself down. It’s brilliant news, you deserve it.’

  ‘Yeah, neat job, Mum,’ said Oli, chewing. ‘You’ll win for sure.’

  Chloe didn’t comment. She was playing with her food, cutting the spaghetti into small pieces and mashing it into the sauce. Not eating again, I noticed.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to be shortlisted. Hilary nominated me, bless her.’

  ‘Hilary?’ Tom looked surprised as he filled his wine glass. ‘Is she looking for a pay rise or something?’

  ‘No! At least I hope not. I think it’s part of some plan. She’s hoping that if I win, there’ll be media coverage and things will perk up.’

  ‘It’s not like her to be so imaginative.’

  ‘I know,’ I chuckled, ‘but she’s got a point. Business could be better.’ My butterflying thoughts settled briefly on the situation at work. Costs were going up and our fees had had to rise accordingly. For some families, it was barely worth both parents working. Numbers were down as mums stayed at home or roped in grandparents to provide free childcare. If I’d had that option when the kids were little, I’d probably have done the same.

  ‘Finished?’ Tom gestured at my half-eaten meal. ‘You’re not still on the diet, are you?’

  ‘Not really. But now there’s this award ceremony coming up and I want to look good. There’s a three-course dinner, speeches and some live entertainment, I think. Oh, and it’s black tie. I know you hate dressing up as a penguin, but … well … I’d love you all to come.’

  Chloe pulled a disgusted face. ‘What, me too? No way. Bo-ring!’

  ‘Ahem! We’d all love to support you, darling, of course we would.’ Tom patted my hand.

  ‘When is it?’ Oli was looking concerned. ‘Only I’ve already lost a whole weekend ’cos of your party, and if it’s around exam time …’

  ‘No, no, it’s in a few weeks. Surely you can take one evening off.’

  ‘But I have this schedule …’

  ‘You’re such a nerd,’ Chloe groaned. ‘I don’t know why you even want to go to Cambridge with all those stuck-up geeks. You’re so lame.’

  Oli tutted. ‘Lame means you can’t walk properly, which obviously I can, so if you’re using it as an insult, that’s disablist.’

  ‘Oh so-rreee, Mr I-Just-Swallowed-a-Dictionary.’

  ‘Lame is hardly an unusual word,’ interrupted Tom. ‘And it’s not fair to disrespect Oli’s ambition.’

  ‘Oh, piss off. Do you know what you even sound like?’ Chloe leapt up, pushing her chair back so violently it hit the wall and a tiny chip of plaster fell to the floor.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I cried.

  Her che
eks flamed. ‘He’s destroying my life,’ she said, pointing at her brother. ‘I can’t play my music, can’t have friends for sleepovers, can’t do anything I want to do in case it disturbs his fucking revision.’

  ‘Chloe, I will not have swearing—’

  ‘But when it’s your party or some stupid event, then it’s oh Oli, surely you can take one night off. You all make me want to throw up. I hope he goes to Cambridge and never comes back!’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Not that it matters, ’cos I’ll have left home by then. Actually, I might as well leave now.’ She picked up her phone and marched out of the room.

  ‘Chloe!’ I followed her into the hallway, with Tom close behind me. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where are you going? You can’t go out now, it’s dark!’

  ‘Like you care.’ She shoved her jacket on.

  Tom stretched out his arms pleadingly. ‘Chloe, darling, sit down and talk to us!’

  ‘I just need some fresh air, okay? It’s like I can’t breathe.’ She opened the front door.

  ‘Don’t sla—’ I began as she slammed it behind her and stomped down the front path.

  Tom put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Let her go, she just needs to calm down.’

  ‘But … but Oli didn’t do anything!’

  ‘She’s just jealous, Mum.’ Oli was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Why? She doesn’t even like Cambridge, thinks it’s full of nerds.’

  ‘She’s jealous that you support me. She thinks you don’t rate her ’cos at school there’s nothing she’s really good at.’

  ‘That’s silly. She’s got different talents, that’s all.’ I couldn’t think of any right at that minute, unless you counted her ability to cause a scene. Chloe – dear, sweet Chloe – wasn’t academically gifted like Oli, but she had a lot more spirit. I saw so much of myself in her, and that worried me. It made me come down on her extra hard.

  ‘She could be brilliant at all sorts of things,’ said Tom. ‘She just hasn’t found a passion for anything yet.’

  Oli sniggered under his breath. ‘Apart from boys.’

  I rounded on him sharply. ‘What do you mean? What boys?’

  ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like one. Has she got a boyfriend? Is that who’s she gone to see?’

  He held up his hands in self-defence. ‘No! I don’t know! She wouldn’t tell me anyway.’

  ‘It’s okay, darling,’ said Tom. ‘He said it was a joke.’

  ‘If you see her hanging around with anyone, especially any older boys, I want to know. Do you understand? I must know what’s going on.’

  ‘Jesus, get a life.’ Oli shook his head. ‘Stop stressing me out, okay? I’ve got two more hours to do tonight.’ He pushed past me and walked up the stairs, huffing to himself. ‘Anyway, I’m not your spy.’

  Somehow, we’d managed to fall out with both of them. Tom gestured for us to move into the lounge. We collapsed on the sofa with a simultaneous thud and he put his arm around me, drawing me close.

  ‘That was a bit OTT, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Of course Chloe’s interested in boys; she’s a typical fourteen-year-old. I teach hundreds like her every day.’

  I sighed. ‘I worry for her, that’s all. The world’s a dangerous place.’ I didn’t add that my real fear was she might follow in my disastrous footsteps. ‘Where do you think she’s gone? It’s dark out there. We should go after her. I’ll send a text.’

  ‘Leave it a while.’ Tom stroked my back soothingly. ‘She’s probably gone to a friend’s house for a good moan, or she’s sitting in the bus shelter taking angry selfies and posting them on Instagram.’ He smiled at the image he’d just conjured up, but I couldn’t share his equanimity. I was thinking about myself at her age and the awful things I’d done. I had to protect her from making the same mistakes.

  Chapter Six

  Erin

  July 1994

  I’m standing in the saloon bar of the Craven Arms, blinking in the red-tinged light. The pub has a reputation for drugs and fights. They have live bands at the weekend and are lax about checking ID. It’s Saturday evening. Mum and Dad, my jailers, have gone to the cinema and won’t be back until after nine. I have just under three hours to see Dean, then race back home to my cell.

  Normally I wouldn’t dare set foot in a place like this, but a strange force has taken hold of me. I want to do something stupid and reckless. My face is caked in make-up, eyelashes curled, lips a pouty pink. I’m wearing an off-the-shoulder top, tight jeans and the sparkly sandals Holly lent me two weeks ago. I have this ridiculous idea that I look eighteen.

  Dean told me I would find him here, but I can’t see him. I hover by the door, willing him to appear. The room is grimy, the atmosphere heavy with smoke. It’s a warm summer’s night, but the walls smell damp. An old guy is banging on the jukebox, which is blaring out country and western hits. He looks completely pissed. A large sweaty woman in a T-shirt dress and flip-flops is cackling with the barman. A few older men are sitting on a bench, sipping pints and staring at the telly on the wall. As I take a pace forward to peer around the corner, their heads turn in unison to leer at my revealing top.

  He’s got to be here. This is where he said he’d be waiting. I’m worried that he might be cross with me for not coming earlier, but I haven’t had a chance. Mum and Dad have been watching me like hawks, listening in to my phone conversations with my friends, refusing even to let me out in the daytime to go swimming, or wander around the shops, or meet friends at McDonald’s for a milkshake. I’ve not been allowed to hang out with Asha or Holly, even though Asha lives on the same street.

  The anger has been building inside me for days, but I’ve kept it buried deep. I decided to lure them into a false sense of security by being all sweet and apologetic, pretending I’ve learnt my lesson. And it worked. They went out this evening, convinced that I would stay at home and watch television.

  ‘You can phone Holly if you like,’ said Mum, ‘but for no longer than twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d really like that,’ I replied, trying to wipe the smirk from my mouth. As soon as they left the house, I ran upstairs and started the transformation. I hurried down the street, hoping none of the neighbours would see me, and caught the bus to the other side of town. The rough side, where my parents never go.

  My heart is beating fast as I totter past the drinkers and head towards a rickety conservatory at the back of the pub. I pause at the entrance. Is that Dean leaning over the pool table? I’m not sure. It’s two weeks since we met at the gig; it was dark and I was drunk. I know the smell and taste of him better than what he looks like. In my dreams, he’s become as fit as a singer in a boy band, or an Aussie soap star. Tall and broad-shouldered, chiselled features, dreamy eyes, sun-kissed hair curling at his neck. This guy is shorter than I remember; his hair is mousy and needs a trim. I hesitate. Don’t want to run up and kiss a stranger.

  He hasn’t spotted me yet, nor has the guy he’s playing with. I think he might be the one who drove when they gave me a lift home. Pints of lager are balanced on the edge of the table. Dean – if it is him – stands up and chalks the end of his cue. The other guy snatches a drink. I edge forward, willing them to turn around and see me, but they’re too busy joshing about. My polite cough is drowned in a roar of dirty laughter.

  There’s no choice: I just have to go for it. My heart flaps in my chest like a trapped bird as I walk up to the table and tap him on the shoulder.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my voice squeaking with nerves.

  He flinches slightly, then turns around. Instantly I see that it is him. Blue eyes, dark brows; a bridge of freckles across his snub nose.

  ‘Yeah?’ His eyes scan over me, up and down, side to side, inside and out.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Erin.’

  He frowns. ‘Who?’

  ‘We met at the Acacia Drive concert, remember?’

  ‘Oh … yeah. Sort of.’

  �
�You invited me down here …’

  ‘Did I? Okay, if you say so.’ He takes a slug of his lager and winks at his friend, who’s leaning on his cue, sniggering. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Erin.’

  ‘Hmm … That gig was a couple of weeks ago. Took your time, didn’t you?’

  I blush beneath my foundation. ‘Sorry. I’ve been away … on holiday. Just got back.’ No way am I going to tell him I was grounded and had to sneak out of the house tonight.

  ‘Okay … well you’re here now. Sit down, princess, and I’ll get you a drink.’

  One drink turns into three, then four, five, maybe six. I lose count. My stomach is swilling with a mixture of lager, cider and vodka shots. We share a couple of packets of crisps, but it doesn’t help. I feel dizzy and sick and have to rest my head against the wall to stop the world taking me on a roller-coaster ride. I’m starting to wonder, in a vague, pissed kind of way, what the time is. After a while, Dean’s friend goes to the bar, leaving the two of us alone. Dean pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing me. He tastes of beer and cigarettes and his tangy aftershave shoots up my nostrils. His face is rough, scarred with red shaving marks. He rubs it against my soft cheeks as he chews my lips. I wriggle like a fish, half protesting, half wanting more.

  ‘Not here,’ I say, when he pauses to catch his breath and reaches for his pint. ‘Everyone’s watching.’

  ‘Right. So you wanna go outside, do you?’ His eyes glitter as he stands up and drags me to my feet. I feel myself swaying as he leads me out of the back of the conservatory into a small yard. It’s not a beer garden; there are no tables or chairs, just smelly wheelie bins and a small skip overflowing with empty bottles, flattened cartons and sticks of broken furniture. Weeds poke through the cracks in the concrete.

  ‘This’ll have to do,’ he says, grinning. He pulls up my top and slips his hand inside my bra. The sweat on my face dries to a chill, and I wobble in my sandals, barely able to stand upright as he devours me.