by Carol Mason
PRAISE FOR CAROL MASON
‘Poignant, emotional, and breathtaking . . . In The Shadow Between Us, Olivia is running from something we’ve all feared and hope to never face. Carol Mason’s effortless storytelling and exquisite writing will keep you turning the pages until the book’s stunning and surprising ending. Bring tissues!’
Kerry Lonsdale, Amazon Charts and Wall Street Journal bestselling author
‘Acutely observed, emotionally honest, utterly brilliant writing, with a shocker of a twist that took my breath away.’
Melissa Hill, bestselling author
‘A beautifully written story of how we connect with each other in terrible crisis, told with wit and humanity – and one hell of a final twist. I loved it.’
Louise Candlish, author of Sunday Times bestseller Our House
‘A skillful, compassionate journey into the aftereffects of trauma, The Shadow Between Us deftly explores what happens when we hold tight to the secrets we keep, and they hold tight to us too.’
Amy Hatvany, bestselling author
‘A haunting, heartfelt exploration of guilt and hidden turmoil, of running away, of turning back to face the shadows. I loved it.’
Charity Norman, bestselling author of See You in September
‘I read The Shadow Between Us in two sittings. Carol Mason has created a fast-paced novel. At its centre is a woman whose heart has been broken. She is on the run from herself. Carol takes us on an emotional journey which keep us gripped right to the very last twist, which hit me in the solar plexus. I had not seen it coming.’
Carol Drinkwater, bestselling author and actress
‘This book is a haunting exploration of the corrosive power of grief and the redemption to be found in understanding each other and ourselves.’
Caroline Bond, bestselling author of The Second Child
‘Full of realistic emotional twists. The characters’ reactions to the challenges they face are frank and unmelodramatic; there is a refreshing honesty about the numbness that comes from discovering an infidelity, and the shame that comes with perpetrating one. Equally affecting are the counterpoised sources of sadness in Jill’s life. Her marriage has faltered because she and her husband can’t have children and yet she must be a mother to her own parents in their old age; it’s a poignant combination.’
Telegraph, UK
‘A sweet, sad tale of love, loss, and the crazy way the world works to reclaim love again.’
Cosmopolitan, Australia
‘What really goes on behind closed doors. Carol Mason unlocks life behind a marriage in this strong debut.’
Heat, UK
‘Mason’s writing is absorbing. While reading a spicy bit about Leigh’s affair while taking the bus to work, I rode past my stop.’
Rebecca Wigod, The Vancouver Sun
‘This poignant novel deals with honesty, forgiveness, love and the realities of modern-day marriage.’
Notebook, Australia
‘There is a fresh and vital edge to this superior debut novel. Mason has much to say about relationships. Her women have resonant characters and recognisable jobs, which give depth to their messy lives. A bittersweet narrative and ambiguous outcomes make this much grittier and more substantial than standard chick-lit fare.’
Financial Times, UK
‘It’s got the raw realism of someone writing about a world she knows. A grand little book for the festive fireside.’
Irish Evening Herald
OTHER TITLES BY CAROL MASON:
After You Left
The Secrets of Married Women
The Last Time We Met
Send Me a Lover
The Shadow Between Us
Little White Secrets
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Carol Mason
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542004992
ISBN-10: 1542004993
Cover design by Emma Rogers
For my sister-in-law, Mary Capuccinello
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Did you enjoy . . .
ONE
December 2017, Santa Monica, California
The sun felt like anything but a winter one. I accessed the palm-treed pool deck with my room’s key card, surprised to see there was one other person with the same intention. He looked up from his phone. He may have said, ‘Good morning,’ or ‘Hi.’ Nothing that demanded a reply. I shot one anyway in his general direction.
As he was occupying a lounger at the near side of the pool, I walked over to the far side, my laptop and notepad tucked under my arm. Parking myself under an umbrella, I stared out across the barely populated expanse of buttermilk sand, currently being groomed by two John Deere tractors. I watched them for a while as they performed their repetitive loops; a Los Angeles Police Department helicopter circled noisily overhead.
It was several hours later, in the mid-afternoon, when I heard a voice say, ‘Would you like a drink?’
I had almost nodded off, and practically jumped out of my skin.
‘Sorry,’ he said. He was standing a few feet away. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ It seemed to entertain him. ‘I just thought . . . it’s cocktail hour. I’m ordering something, and I thought you might like one too.’
I sat up and looked at him. He was tall and slim, brownish hair flecked with grey at the temples. Older than me, maybe by a decade. And he was wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’m okay.’
He plucked off his glasses. It was a face that was neither forgettable in its ordinariness, nor straightforwardly handsome. More like somewhere in the interesting middle. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. There was a certain kindly tenacity in his gaze
. ‘Sounds like there’s room for movement.’
Part of me thought, Go on, but what came out was, ‘Thanks, I’m good.’
He gave a slightly helpless shrug and walked away. I immediately regretted not having been more sporting. Oh well . . . I reached for my laptop, tried to remember what I’d been doing before my thwarted attempt at a nap. Ten minutes or so later, a hand performed a wide arc around my shoulder.
‘If I’m completely out of line, you don’t have to drink it.’ He was holding out a glass of some pale green concoction with a disk of lime on the rim.
‘What is it?’ I asked, staring at his long, slim, tapered fingers.
‘A cucumber jalapeño margarita.’
‘Uh-oh!’ I quickly pushed it to arm’s length. ‘I’m deathly allergic to jalapeños.’
For a moment he looked mortified. ‘You are?’
‘Actually . . .’ I tried to keep a straight face. ‘No. I’m not. Sorry . . . I couldn’t resist that.’
‘Wow,’ he said, after a little laugh. ‘That’s cruel!’ He shook his head, seeming rather bemused. ‘I think you might have just put me off asking a woman to have a drink with me ever again!’
We smiled at each other. I invited him to sit down on the lounger next to me.
‘Well, if I’m not intruding . . .’ He pulled the sunbed a foot or so away from me. ‘You can tell me to leave any time.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Be in no doubt, I will.’
He told me his name was Joe Johnson, and I told him mine was Lauren Matheson.
He asked me what I was doing here, in the magnificent Hotel Casa Del Mar. I explained I’d flown in from London to attend the wedding of a friend who had married a successful guy in the film business. That they’d insisted on putting me up in a hotel for a couple of nights, and that I’d been stunned when the Uber had dropped me off here, when I’d been expecting somewhere like the Holiday Inn.
‘Nice friends!’ he said. ‘Keepers!’
He asked where my friend and I had met. I was surprised he was even interested, so I told him how we were at medical school together.
‘You’re a doctor?’ A flare of intrigue lit up his eyes.
‘Not yet. I graduate next year.’
‘Wow! That’s impressive.’ He grilled me about my chosen career, listened with a certain exclusivity of attention that most people didn’t give you these days. Did doctors usually garner such curiosity? If so, I hadn’t been on the receiving end of it before.
I told him I was from northern England, that I’d always wanted to be a doctor but, oddly, had ended up doing a degree in history then becoming a travel rep for a couple of years. I said I decided to apply to study medicine after one of those watershed moments when I realised that what I was doing, and what I’d always seen myself doing, were two very different things, so I’d managed to get into Imperial College London. I told him that I currently volunteered at a certain hospital twice a week, that I finally felt like my life had purpose – and that, clearly, I talked way too much and was now totally out of breath!
He laughed. It was a great laugh. I found myself wanting to hear it again.
‘So you’re studying for your exams now?’ He indicated my abandoned laptop and notepad.
‘Actually, no. I’m trying to write an entry for the British Medical Association’s annual short story competition. They give you a theme and you’ve got 750 words.’
‘Wow! A scientist and a writer. Left-brained and right! That’s a rare combination!’
‘Hardly!’ I smiled. ‘Believe it or not, there’s no scientific evidence to support that people are either left- or right-brained! In fact, if you performed a CT scan or MRI, or even an autopsy, on the brain of a mathematician and compared it to the brain of an artist, it’s unlikely you’d find much difference. Even if you did the same for a thousand mathematicians and artists.’
His eyes made a rather fascinated study of my face. ‘I stand corrected.’ He pretended to look suitably disabused. ‘I always sensed that whole thing was a little woo-woo.’
A laugh burst out of me. ‘Enough of me,’ I said. ‘Where are you from in America? And what are you doing here?’ I wanted to get him talking. I wasn’t sure if it was his voice I liked, or his accent, or both. Or was it simply that I just liked him?
‘Well, I’m from Chicago, originally. I’m in venture capital. We’re winding up a project here.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and I observed his bony elbows. ‘I was supposed to go home this morning but changed my ticket last minute to give myself one more day to hang out.’ He gestured in my direction with a hand. ‘And now, of course, I’m very pleased that I did.’
A shot of dopamine hit my brain.
‘So you said you’re from Chicago originally. Where do you live now?’
‘Well, here’s the thing . . .’ His eyes took on a slightly devilish quality. ‘I live in London too.’
‘Seriously?’ I let this land.
‘Yes.’ His gaze held fast with mine. ‘For the last twenty years.’
I had known a few Brits who had moved stateside, but I’d never seen it happen the other way round. ‘Why England?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I got an internship in the City in finance when I was twenty-one. It was supposed to be for just a year. But then, as is often the way of these things . . . I met a girl, married her and stayed.’
‘Right,’ I said, after a beat.
I allowed this new detail to articulate itself. Had I assumed he wasn’t married because he wasn’t wearing a ring? Why had I even looked?
I watched him take a sip of his drink.
‘So this American your friend married . . . is he a good guy, as well as a rich one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘All I really heard him say were his vows. But he certainly said them enthusiastically.’
‘Off to a good start then . . .’
The sun had shifted. We didn’t seem inclined to move. We had covered so much in a single hour. Everything from Brexit to US health care, music, Netflix, our childhoods, our friends. He told me his favourite backstreets of London, many of which were mine too. How he loved great food but wasn’t ‘into preciousness’. How he always booked a large hotel suite because he needed ‘to pace’. He said his favourite park was Kensington Gardens, and I said, actually, I’d enjoyed many a summer’s day sitting in front of the palace at Round Pond.
He also said he had a thirteen-year-old daughter, and a three-year-old son. And a dinner reservation, shortly, with an old friend.
‘I really wish I wasn’t going to this thing now,’ he said, after we’d walked off the pool deck and arrived at the lifts. ‘If I hadn’t been, maybe I’d have asked you to join me for dinner.’
I tried to picture it. Dinner. A nightcap. Then what? A kiss? An invitation to his room? Wrong for a million reasons, yet right for one: something had started that I didn’t want to end.
‘Yes. That would have been nice.’ I reckoned I could admit it, given it wasn’t going to happen.
When the lift arrived at his floor, I said it had been a pleasure, and I was sorry I’d attempted to ruin his classy attempt to buy me a drink. He told me there had been no ruining of anything, that I was charming, that he had enjoyed every minute of our conversation.
‘I meant to ask you,’ he said, just as he was about to step out. ‘What’s the theme of the story you’re writing?’
I told him it was about regrets.
The door started to close. He surprised me by wedging a foot in. Then he took the little notepad from my hand, plucked the pen from my fingers.
‘In case we ever find ourselves sitting at opposite sides of Round Pond and you want to alert me to the fact that if I look forty-five degrees to my right, I’ll find you sitting there.’
He had written his name, phone number and his company name.
‘Thank you.’ I glanced at the tidy block capitals. ‘I’ll keep it handy on the off-chance.’
And then we said goodbye.
The next morning, after a restless sleep, I told myself to think no more about him. He’d be checking out. I had one more day to fill. I didn’t want to end up back at the pool, staring at an empty sun lounger, seeing him still sitting there in my mind’s eye.
But when I opened my door, there, lying on the carpet, was a small white envelope with my name on it. Inside was a sheet of plain heavyweight stationery.
I thought long and hard about phoning your room after dinner and inviting you for a drink in the bar. I hope you know that I wanted to more than anything. But it’s complicated.
Joe.
TWO
London, fourteen months later
The man in Bay 4 is handsome. And fit. And has no shirt on.
‘Good morning,’ I say, perfunctory but pleasant. ‘I’m Dr Matheson.’ One of these days there’ll be an experimental drug for blushing, and I’m going to be the first to take it.
‘Doctor?’ His eyes go to my legs. ‘Hmm . . . Interesting.’
It’s usually just the oldies who somehow manage to reinforce your own regrettable case of Imposter Syndrome. I tug the blue curtain closed behind me. ‘And you are?’ I glance at his chart and answer my own question. ‘Dave Wilson.’
‘But you can call me darling.’ He gives me the cheekiest grin.
I shake my head in feigned exasperation. ‘So what brings you in here today, Dave Wilson?’
‘Well, I’m not sure, Doctor,’ he says. ‘But believe me, if I’d known you worked here, I’d have got here a lot sooner.’
When I give him my Okay! This is getting a little tiresome! face, he says, ‘Well . . . I was up a ladder – I’m in construction – then I fell.’ He touches his right bicep. ‘Done my arm in, I think.’
‘Hmm . . .’ I tap my pen on my clipboard. ‘So how far did you fall, exactly, Mr Wilson?’
‘Call me Dave. A couple of storeys. It’s still a bit blurred.’
I ask him to perform certain movements with his arm. When he tries to move it ninety degrees, he winces. ‘Lose your balance?’ I gently squeeze all the way down to his wrist and when I get to his hand, he upturns his palm to mine.
