The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 6

  Polly works in quality assurance, heading a large department in one of London’s universities – she went on maternity leave only days before her due date and is taking her full year. Within minutes of popping Belinda out with no pain relief whatsoever (or so she claimed), she knew everything there was to know about childbirth and soon had motherhood down to a fine art. Or was that a dark art? It was her suggestion to carry on meeting so that they could support each other, but Amber suspects she just misses bossing people about. She has lots of uncharitable thoughts about Polly.

  At first, their conversations were supportive. Everyone (apart from you-know-who) openly admitted how tired they were feeling, how they didn’t know what day of the week it was, how they’d forgotten to get dressed and spent the whole day in their pyjamas. But recently the conversations have become less about making each other feel better and more about scoring points. Whose child sleeps the longest at night, whose little darling is already sitting up, or waving, or possibly even saying what sounds like ‘Mama’?

  The mums are all here, grouped around a large table in the corner of the restaurant. Waiting for her. She’s putting their carefully organised schedule in jeopardy. Amber pulls a face of apology as she approaches – first to give birth, last to arrive, she thinks. Another black mark against her.

  ‘We were starting to wonder.’ Polly stands up and starts guiding her into a space for the buggy in the way a man might help a woman to park a car. ‘Not that way, go around the chairs and then back up next to Kendra’s,’ she instructs above the cool contemporary jazz music.

  Amber smiles through gritted teeth, her progress halted as she lassoes a chair with the strap of the changing bag.

  ‘Let me help!’ Polly lunges forward and attempts to snatch the buggy out of Amber’s hands.

  ‘It’s okay, I can do it,’ she snaps, releasing her bag and parking up. She takes the spare chair between Cora and Hanima and sits down with a sigh. ‘Sorry I’m so late.’

  Everybody is anxious to order their food before the babies wake up, although Louisa’s little boy is on a different timetable and finishing off a feed.

  ‘I’ll have a pepperoni pizza and a large glass of house white,’ Amber tells the waiter. The others raise their eyebrows like a team of synchronised swimmers. She knows exactly what they’re thinking – spicy food and alcohol can only mean one thing.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Polly. ‘You’ve given up breastfeeding. What happened?’

  ‘Not enough milk.’

  ‘You probably weren’t drinking enough water,’ says Cora.

  ‘I drank gallons of the stuff.’

  Hanima gives her a sympathetic smile. ‘Maybe it was stress.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You should try a lactation consultant,’ declares Polly. ‘Luckily, I didn’t need one because Belinda latched on immediately, but I’ve heard they can be very good. I’ll ask around, find you a recommendation.’ She leans across and pats Amber’s arm. ‘Please don’t give up, for Mabel’s sake.’

  Amber clenches her jaw. ‘I didn’t want to give up, I tried and tried, but it just wasn’t working. Anyway, I feel so much better now, and Mabel’s happier too.’

  Polly frowns, clearly thinking this can’t possibly be the case. But Amber knows it’s true. Mabel used to fret at the breast, either falling asleep with all the effort of sucking or biting her in frustration. Now she sucks contentedly on her bottle, secure in the knowledge that she won’t be going to bed hungry.

  Food orders placed and glasses of non-alcoholic drinks clinked in a toast to motherhood, Polly commands the undivided attention of the group, announcing that she has some important and highly sensitive information to impart, otherwise known as a bit of juicy gossip.

  ‘It’s about Sonya,’ she says.

  A heavy silence immediately descends on the group, punctuated only by the clatter of cutlery as the waiter lays their places. Amber looks towards Mabel, still asleep in her buggy, her stomach clenching empathetically as she remembers what happened last summer.

  Sonya wasn’t like the other mums-to-be. She didn’t seem anxious or excited and wasn’t really interested in learning about labour or childcare. Nobody knew much about her, other than she used to work out at George’s gym, although being the manager, with only a few personal clients, he didn’t remember her. She wasn’t at all forthcoming, despite Polly’s probing. It was as if she didn’t really want to be at the class, but had been forced to attend.

  For one thing, she refused to remove her shoes for the yoga-inspired exercises, despite all entreaties. ‘My feet smell,’ she said finally, going very red in the face. Her bump was small, considering how far gone she was, although this made more sense after Cora saw her smoking at the bus stop. She was a mystery.

  She only turned up to two – maybe three – classes, then stopped. The rest of them agreed that she hadn’t really fitted in; they even made jokes about smelly feet. Then the news filtered through that her baby had died in the womb and she’d had to deliver her. Everyone was very shocked and upset, full of pity for Sonya and fear for the precious parcels they themselves were carrying around. They felt guilty about not having liked her much and didn’t know how to respond. Should they ignore the tragedy, or send messages of sympathy, even flowers?

  Hanima heard via some other channel that Sonya wasn’t with the father of the child, and Kendra had a theory that he was a married man. Without any evidence, they concluded that she was alone, unsupported and in need of sisterly help. Polly decided they should visit her en masse but Amber argued that would be extremely insensitive, given that they were all so visibly pregnant, and refused to take part.

  As far as Amber knew, only Polly from the group had kept in touch. Occasionally Sonya’s name came up at their meetings and everyone paused to feel sad for her, then quickly reverted to happier subjects.

  ‘So? What have you heard?’ asks Louisa, removing little Noah from the breast and doing up her bra.

  Polly leans forward. ‘Well, according to another friend who knows her from Zumba …’ silent drum roll, ‘she’s gone completely off the radar.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Cora, eyes widening.

  ‘She’s stopped answering her phone and come off all social media – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, WhatsApp, the lot.’

  ‘That’s weird,’ says Kendra. ‘Why has she done that?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound good,’ Hanima agrees.

  ‘I’m really worried about her.’ Polly takes a sip of her cranberry and soda. ‘Ever since she lost the baby, I’ve been reaching out, about once a week, you know, just checking in to see how she’s doing, then a couple of weeks ago, she blocked me!’

  ‘That’s rude,’ says Louisa. ‘I don’t care how depressed you, you don’t block friends who are trying to help.’

  Amber is listening to all this with mild disgust. What was Polly thinking, as a new mum, pestering another woman who’d just lost her baby? She’s not surprised Sonya blocked her; she’d have done the same.

  ‘Well, I was quite hurt,’ admits Polly. ‘But then a few days later, I realised she’d disappeared.’

  There’s a collective gasp and slapping of hands across mouths. ‘Oh my God,’ says Cora. ‘That’s awful!’

  Polly frowns. ‘I don’t mean actually disappeared, I mean virtually.’

  ‘That’s almost as bad,’ says Kendra. ‘I know she was in a bad way after, you know, it happened, but do you think … I mean, could she be, you know …?’

  ‘Poor Sonya,’ murmurs Cora.

  ‘Well, that’s what it looks like to me,’ says Polly. ‘Losing her baby like that, so late on, and all on her own … I’d be suicidal, wouldn’t you?’ Amber groans inwardly. Trust Polly to voice the word that others daren’t let pass their lips.

  ‘Have you tried going round to see her?’ asks Hanima, whose daughter has been whimpering for the last few minutes. She lifts her out of the buggy and rests her on her lap.

  ‘No, not y
et,’ Polly replies. ‘I want to, but I’ve been really busy – haven’t had a chance. To be honest, I’m frightened of what I might find.’

  ‘Oh my God, you mean you think she might be …?’ Louisa says.

  Polly nods. ‘It’s really frightening, isn’t it? I don’t know what to do.’

  The others consider the problem silently for a few seconds, while Amber prickles with irritation. Why is it suddenly up to Polly to put Sonya’s world to rights?

  ‘Perhaps you could talk to her friends,’ suggests Kendra.

  ‘Hmm … To be honest, I think Sonya’s a bit of a loner. I’ve a feeling she already had mental health issues before the miscarriage.’

  ‘Then I fear for her, I really do,’ says Hanima. ‘And without a husband or family—’

  ‘Look, none of us really know anything about her, do we?’ Amber interjects. ‘We’ve no idea whether she’s suicidal or not. Maybe she got fed up with everyone being sorry for her loss and needed some time away from social media.’

  ‘But she’s on her own,’ protests Polly. ‘Mad with grief.’

  ‘You don’t know that, you’re just assuming. She may be coping okay with it.’

  Polly rounds on her. ‘How can you say that? You don’t understand what it’s like to lose a child.’

  Nor do you, Amber says silently. Why are they being so ghoulish? It’s really unsavoury. She withdraws from the conversation, but it carries on, gathering momentum.

  The others start debating whether the NHS let Sonya down by not offering enough grief counselling, whether she’s already dead, and even what method she might have used to kill herself. Amber starts to feel physically sick. They pause when the food arrives. She picks at her pizza while the rest of them tuck into healthier options, the discussion moving on from Sonya’s supposed suicide to how lucky they are not to be suffering from postnatal depression themselves.

  Amber drifts away mentally from the group. Have they not noticed how much she is struggling? Has she hidden it that well? Or are they just a load of smug, self-obsessed gossip-mongers? As she drinks her wine, she decides this is her last mums’ meet-up. There’s no need to fall out with them; she just won’t turn up and eventually they’ll get the message. Not that they’ll care. It’s not like any of them are real friends …

  Unable to face giving Mabel a bottle under their disapproving gaze, Amber makes her excuses and leaves the pub. No doubt they’ll be talking about her now, she thinks as she pushes the buggy back up the hill. Well, let them. Having been desperate to go out, all she wants now is to be at home where nobody can judge her.

  ‘Hey, shush, it’s okay, we’re nearly there.’ She leans over the buggy and peers at Mabel through the transparent hood, spattered with drops of rainwater. As she manoeuvres around the tree roots bulging through the pavement, she feels an alcohol headache coming on. She really shouldn’t drink at lunchtime. The weather isn’t helping either – the rain is furrowing her forehead, knotting the muscles in her neck.

  She unlocks the door and enters the house, parking the buggy in the hallway and shutting the door with a backward kick of her heel. Mabel is crying properly now. Amber removes the plastic hood and wrestles her daughter out of the straps.

  ‘Whatever possessed us to buy a first-floor flat?’ she thinks aloud, tramping up to the nursery and dumping Mabel in her cot. Not grasping that this is only a temporary measure, Mabel starts to scream, but Amber blocks it out as she takes off her coat and shoes. Rubbing her wet hair roughly with a towel, she rescues her daughter and takes her into the kitchen, balancing her on one hip while she runs the water cold and searches for the paracetamol. Mabel wriggles and protests, so Amber puts her in the baby bouncer instead and shoves a rice cake into her hand.

  The washing machine has finished its cycle, but to her surprise it’s not bleeping at her in that annoying way it usually does. Nor is its light flashing. She bends down to pick up a stray sock of George’s that’s lying on the floor. To her surprise, it’s soaking wet. She sniffs it – that’s odd, it smells clean too. How could this be?

  She replays her actions this morning before she left the flat. Mabel woke just before six and she got up to change her and give her breakfast. She entertained her and tried to keep her quiet so that George could sleep a little longer. He got up at seven, usual time. After he left for work at around eight, she gave Mabel a bath and dressed her, then put her on the activity mat, leaving her to play while she gathered up the dirty washing and put a load of coloureds on. Then she got ready for the mums’ meet-up, changed Mabel again and put her outdoor suit on. She thought the washing machine was still going when they left the house. At least that’s how she remembers it.

  But she must be wrong. She must have put the washing on much earlier, and when it bleeped to tell her that it had finished, she must have opened the door to look inside for some reason, and at that point the sock must have fallen out. But why didn’t she remove the clean clothes and hang them up? There’s a simple answer to that: she was distracted by Mabel and then it slipped her mind. Except she has no memory whatsoever of any of this happening. A chunk of time has been completely wiped from her brain. She stares at George’s wet black sock sitting in her hand. My God, she thinks, I’m going mad.

  Chapter Ten

  Three days before

  Amber only wants to talk to one person right now – Seth – but he probably won’t pick up. His lunch break is over and he’ll be back at his desk or in a meeting. Predictably, the phone rings out, then click into voicemail. She doesn’t leave a message because he often doesn’t get back to her. Instead, she rattles off a text.

  Can you talk?

  He replies instantly.

  Sorry, not right now. Everything okay?

  Amber groans. No. Freaking out here.

  Why?

  Too hard to explain. Need to talk to you.

  I’ll call you later.

  Soon as you can, please. G will be home around 7.

  I know. Will do my best. Try to stay calm. Love you xx

  You too xx

  Then he sends his usual reminder.

  PS Don’t forget to delete.

  When he finally rings at ten to seven, she’s in the middle of bathing Mabel and can’t answer. He leaves a message apologising for not being able to call earlier and suggests she phone him when she can. Amber feels irritated. He has no idea how difficult all this is. There’s no way she can call him back tonight. There’s Mabel to see to, the dinner to cook, not to mention the obvious fact that George will walk through the door at any moment.

  She lifts Mabel out of the bath and wraps her in her fluffy hooded penguin towel. ‘Oh, you’re so cute,’ she says, rubbing her dry. She starts to fantasise about going around to Seth’s place. It would be so good to talk to him face to face, and he’d love to see Mabel. They haven’t spent any time together for ages. It’s not really possible for her to get away at weekends – a weekday would be better. Maybe Seth would be able to work from home one day next week, or even take a day off. Would he be prepared to do that for her? Perhaps, if he was seriously worried about her mental health. Then again, maybe she should just see a bloody doctor.

  She hears the front door opening downstairs. ‘Hi!’ George calls up, shutting it behind him.

  Amber does a quick change of gear. ‘Daddy’s home,’ she says to Mabel, picking her up.

  He climbs the stairs and pokes his head around the door. ‘How are my two favourite girls?’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks. Can you finish off here while I get the supper ready? Sorry, I’m a bit behind.’

  He pauses to contain his annoyance. ‘Okay. Just let me get my coat off.’

  She carries on drying and dressing Mabel until George takes over, then hurries into the kitchen. It’s a quick-assembly meal tonight. Amber’s never been an ambitious chef, but since becoming a mum, she’s reverted to her old student menu of stir fries, pasta, oven chips and takeaways. Easy but boring. As she chops an onion, she thinks of their M
ichelin-starred dinner last Saturday and the incredible passion that followed. It feels like a lifetime away. Or rather, some other woman’s life that she borrowed for a short time but had to return.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid,’ George says as he puts Mabel – who clearly has no intention of going to bed yet – in her baby rocker and sits down to eat.

  Amber’s face falls. ‘What do you mean? What bad news?’

  ‘It’s okay, no need to panic. I’ve got to go to a conference this weekend, that’s all. The company’s announcing plans for expansion. I wanted to send one of my assistants, but head office says all managers have to attend.’

  ‘How long for? Where? Will you have to stay over?’

  ‘It’s two nights in Manchester, so yes.’

  She stares into her bowl of tuna pasta, tears pricking behind her eyes. ‘No. You can’t. Please don’t leave me on my own.’

  George carries on eating. ‘Sorry, love. I’d much rather be at home with you and Mabel, but I can’t refuse. It’s not like she’s a newborn any more. I can’t use her as an excuse.’

  ‘But … but I need my weekends. I really, really need them. By the time Friday comes around, I’m dead beat. If I can’t lie in on Saturday morn—’

  He puts down his fork. ‘You’ve only just had a break. Surely you can manage. It’s just a weekend, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But you know I’m struggling.’

  He sighs. ‘Yes, yes, I do … I do my best, Amber, but if I gave up work, where would we be then?’

  ‘They can’t make you work weekends, it’s not fair.’

  ‘If you need support, ask your mum to come over.’

  ‘No way, she just makes me feel even more inadequate.’

  ‘Ruby, then.’

  ‘I can’t ask her two weekends running. Anyway, she’s probably already got plans.’ Amber looks at him imploringly. ‘Please don’t go. I need you here.’ She pauses. ‘Something’s wrong …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something weird happened this morning …’ She searches for the rest of the sentence, but the words scurry away.