was in trouble, which seemed to be all the time. ‘Now
give Daddy a kiss goodbye.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ Daniel said to his son before giving him
a squeeze and ruffling his hair. Isabella gave Sheridan a
look to say she would comb it before they left. So much
was said without words in this household. Sheridan liked
it that way.
Checking they had gone, Daniel slid the newspaper
across the table. ‘This is what I was reading,’ he said.
Sheridan scanned the headlines, taking care to keep
her expression fixed. The story was about Rachel, who
had been involved in a hit and run. Mike had stayed
true to his word and wasted no time. ‘ IT TAKES ALL
SORTS STAR IN INTENSIVE CARE.’ Sheridan’s lips
moved soundlessly as she read the article. ‘Huh,’ she said
eventually. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Daniel replied, clear-
ing his throat. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it,
did you?’
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Caroline Mitchell
Sheridan blurted an exaggerated laugh. ‘Please! It’s a
hit and run. They happen all the time. You don’t seriously
think I was behind the wheel, do you?’
But Mike was. You did this. She could have died. The words formed in her mind like an unwanted invader.
She brought her attention back to the article, unable
to look her husband in the eye. Even if Mike was caught,
he would never rat on her. Not after that lingering kiss.
She sipped her coffee, ridding herself of the memory of
his taste.
Daniel pushed his plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs
away. ‘You can hardly blame me for asking. The last time
we spoke about her you wanted to take out a hit man.’
‘No, it was you who used the words hit man, and you were joking, if I recall…’ Sheridan paused, fixing him
with her best surprised gaze. ‘Oh, honey, you didn’t, did
you? When I said shut her up, I didn’t mean…’
Daniel frowned as she turned the tables on him. ‘Of
course not! What do you take me for?’
‘The same thing you took me for ten seconds ago,’
Sheridan said, prodding herself in the chest. ‘So try not
to look so insulted. Either way, she won’t be blabbing to
the gossip mags any time soon.’ She imagined Rachel
attached to monitors, a tube shoved down her gossiping
throat. ‘Serves her right.’
Sheridan made a mental note to pay Mike when things
died down. Perhaps she should give him the amount in
full; let him blow himself away with coke and booze.
Then again, she might need his services a little longer.
She scanned the list of Rachel’s injuries, biting back her
smile. That was what happened to people who crossed
her. Perhaps she should send her some flowers, just in
case the police came sniffing around later on. She would
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The Perfect Mother
give one of her winning performances, expressing how
sorry she was. Hell, she might even visit her in hospital,
just for kicks.
‘You’re not going to see her,’ Daniel told her, ignoring
the persistent ring of his mobile phone.
‘How did you . . ?’ Sheridan’s voice melted away. Her
husband’s ability to read her mind was uncanny sometimes.
‘I know you. If you go there you won’t be able to resist
gloating. They’ve got CCTV everywhere these days. Best
to maintain a dignified silence.’
I wouldn’t be able to resist pushing a pillow on her face, more like, Sheridan thought, smiling sweetly at her husband.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll send some flowers to wish her
a speedy recovery.’
71
CHAPTER TWELVE
Roz
November 2018
I thumbed through the pregnancy book Dympna had
left next to my bed. She knew what she was doing. She
hoped I’d change my mind. In the privacy of my bed-
room, I could not resist the urge to look up how much
my baby had grown. I scanned the page as it described
the eleventh week of pregnancy.
‘You’re smaller than my pinky finger, little bean,’
I said, glancing down at my stomach. ‘You’ve got tiny
fingers and toes, and…’ I smiled as I read. ‘You’re the size of a lime. Your heart is beating twice as hard as mine.’
I felt a warm glow as I saw myself as a safe incubator
for my child. But that was as far as it went. As a mother,
I wouldn’t have a clue. Growing up, Dympna was my
measurement of normality. When we were kids, I studied
her like a curious magpie discovering a piece of jewellery
for the first time. I remember being in awe of her insights and the little things she took for granted every day. ‘These earmuffs tickle my ears,’ she’d complain. ‘And how can I
make a proper snowball with these gloves?’ I’d shove my
hands deep into my pockets, the tips of my fingers numb.
My bare legs felt frozen in the winter because the school
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The Perfect Mother
wouldn’t let us wear trousers and my mother couldn’t
afford to buy me tights. It was only when Dympna was
older that she realised how insensitive she had been.
In the mornings, I got myself ready for school. A
piece of rough string tethered the front door key, which
I’d post through the letterbox when I left. When I came
home, my dinner would be on the table, cold and con-
gealed on my plate. My mother would be sprawled on the
sofa, her movements slow as hurtful words lazily rolled
off her tongue. I pushed away the memory and slid the
pregnancy book into the suitcase on my bed.
A rap at my bedroom door made me stiffen. I guessed
Dympna was mad, because unless the ‘do not disturb’
sign was hanging, she’d have burst in by now.
‘Come in,’ I said, throwing an armful of clothes on to
the bed next to my open suitcase. It was two weeks since
my first contact with Julie, and things had progressed at
a rapid pace.
Dympna’s face was flushed, her red hair tied up in a
nest on her head. She had come straight from work, still
wearing the hotel tabard she should have changed out of
before she left.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, taking one look at
my suitcase before pinning me with a gaze.
‘What?’ I feigned innocence.
Dympna’s anger had a short shelf-life and it didn’t take
long for her to run out of steam. I caught a whiff of her
sweat laced with the high-strength lemon cleaner we used
to clean the en suites in the hotel. She must have left in
a serious rage if she hadn’t changed and showered yet; I
could imagine her stomping all the way over here. I felt
glad to know that she cared. Growing up, I’d mistaken
my mother’s depression for indifference, but I knew better
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Caroline Mitchell
now. I folded my best pyjamas and sleep socks and tucked
them into my case.
‘Orla said you gave in your notice
. What’s that all
about?’ she quizzed.
I sighed, unable to meet her gaze. Dympna had a
right to know, but lately I was feeling the heat of her
judgement. As for Seamus … I could barely look him in
the eye. I reached for my stretchy tracksuit bottoms and
placed them in the case.
‘I was made redundant, but I didn’t want to worry
you until I’d sorted something out. Cutbacks. They’re
keeping it hush-hush.’ In truth, it was my lack of com-
mitment that had led to me getting the sack.
‘So you’re selling your baby because you can’t afford
the rent?’ Dympna glared at my suitcase, as if seeing it
for the first time. ‘And what’s this? Running out on me,
are you?’
My jaw tightened. I had been through a lot of soul-
searching and was in no mood for a row. ‘If you let me
get a word in edgeways, I’ll tell you. Julie’s brought for-
ward the meet-up to this weekend. I’m packing for New
York.’ I was doing this for the baby. But I was doing it
for Dympna, too.
She rested her hands on her hips, oblivious to my
thoughts. ‘Except she’s not Julie, is she? You’re meeting
up with a stranger in a strange country. And as for throw-
ing in your job…’
Patience exhausted, I threaded my hands through my
hair. ‘For feck’s sake. Last in, first out and all that. It’s only a cleaning job.’
It was easy for Dympna. She only took the position as
an act of rebellion against her parents because they were
pressurising her to join the Gardaí. It was only meant to
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The Perfect Mother
be temporary, a means to pay the rent until something
better came along. But life wasn’t so easy for me. Why
couldn’t she see that?
Dympna flapped her arms theatrically. ‘I see. I sup-
pose I’m not good enough for you either, now you’re off
to your fancy New York friends. Is that why you’ve been
avoiding me?’
I sighed. She could be such a drama queen when she
didn’t get her own way. ‘Please, Dympna, I don’t need
this right now.’
On autopilot, I folded my clothes. Jumpers, cardi-
gans, dresses; I had no clue what the weather would be
like in New York, or what I should wear. Normally I’d
consult Dympna, but she was right; I had been keeping my distance. Up until now, I’d appreciated her nurturing
nature.
We weren’t getting anywhere bickering like this, but
Dympna was not content to let the subject lie. ‘How are
you going to manage if it doesn’t work out?’
‘I’m getting expenses. More than we earn in a month –
and that’s only for one weekend. Besides, I have to meet
them. How else will I know if they’re the right fit?’
‘I know, but…’ The wind taken from her sails, she
plopped on to the bed. ‘I can’t believe you’re going through with it. Everything’s moving so fast and I’m worried about
you travelling on your own.’ She picked at a loose thread
hanging from her blue tabard.
Her crumpled face reflected her own insecurities and
I felt my heart melt. ‘Hey…’ I squeezed her shoulder. ‘I
know you don’t like flying, but there’s nothing to be
scared of. I’ll be fine.’
Dympna was right about one thing. Things had hap-
pened quickly. But the baby would be here in six months
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Caroline Mitchell
and preparations had to be made. If Julie and Glenn were
not suitable as a couple, I would have to start all over again.
I folded up a hoodie and placed it in the suitcase. ‘Julie
said she’d help me to meet other prospective parents if it
doesn’t work out with them. Isn’t that nice?’
But my friend narrowed her eyes, far from comforted
by my words. ‘Wait. She’s offered to help you meet other
couples to adopt the baby they want while you’re staying under their roof? Why would they do that?’
‘Jeez, you sound just like your da. They’re being nice,
that’s all. They just want to help.’
Dympna shook her head. ‘Strangers don’t help you.
Not unless they’re getting something in return. That, or
they’ve no intention of letting you go.’
I rolled my eyes. Rising from the bed, Dympna left
me to my own devices without saying another word.
‘Culchie,’ I muttered, stung by her departure. ‘Anyone
would think I was going to the moon.’
But thirty seconds later she returned with a mobile
phone in her hand.
‘I got you this,’ she said. ‘There’s twenty euros’ worth
of credit loaded and it can make international calls.’ The
model was basic, a small round bullet-shaped phone. In
her other hand was a charger. She pressed both into my
hands. ‘Keep it as a backup. Call me if you need me any
time, day or night. I’ll get Dad on to it if I have to. I
don’t like you going over there without knowing your
address.’
Her concern wrapped itself around me like a warm
hug, but I was too stubborn to back down just yet. ‘This
is mad. You’ve been watching too many cop programmes
on TV.’
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The Perfect Mother
‘Please. Keep it hidden.’ She tightened her hands over
mine as I took the phone. ‘They picked you because you’re
a loner. You’ve got to ask yourself why.’
‘I’ve got you.’ My words were quiet and low.
‘Yes, but they don’t know that. I saw your profile. Why did you tell them you had nobody at home?’
I shrugged, placing the phone next to my suitcase to
be packed. ‘Because it’s easier that way.’
Dympna tilted her head to one side. ‘Is it a one-way
or a return ticket?’
‘One-way…’ I watched as her eyes grew wide. ‘But
only because I might want to meet some other couples
while I’m there. They’re booking my return flight when
I’m good and ready. I’ll be staying at the Grand Hyatt
Hotel. Don’t tell anyone. Please.’
Dympna’s features relaxed a little. ‘You’re not staying
with them? Well, I suppose that’s something.’
‘They thought I’d be nervous about staying with
strangers. We’re going to meet up a couple of times and
we’ll be chatting on the phone. It’s all above board. I’ll
be back before you know it.’
‘Then promise me you’ll hide the phone.’
I crossed my heart. It wouldn’t do any harm to stash
it away with my things. Not that I would need it, but it
would put her mind at rest.
‘And don’t forget the code word.’
‘Seriously?’ I chuckled at the mention of the word
we’d been using since primary school. The word ‘pickle’
meant ‘rescue me’. If I were ever trapped at a party in a
boring conversation, I only had to text or say that one
word and Dympna would be ready with an excuse to
help me leave.
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Caroline Mitchell
I couldn’t stay annoyed at Dympna. She was only
watching my back. In truth, I was a little scared myself.
She had raised some very important questions. Why the
need for all this secrecy? They were going against site
protocol and should have divulged their identity by now.
I was as scared as much as I was excited about such a big
journey. But who would be meeting me on the other side?
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Roz
‘I don’t want you to go.’ Dympna stood in the doorway,
her backpack slung over her shoulder. ‘I have a bad feel-
ing about this. Like, a really bad feeling that’s giving me stomach ache.’
She was on the pre-dawn cleaning shift and was run-
ning late, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
‘It’s probably wind.’ I smiled weakly, my suitcase by
my side. ‘Besides, the taxi will be here any minute. I’m
hardly going to change my mind now, am I?’
‘Why do you have to be so stubborn?’ Dympna sniffed,
wiping away an errant tear.
‘And why are you so controlling?’ I retorted, my
voice breaking.
‘Well, shoot me for caring,’ was her instant reply.
‘You’d better come back, Roz Foley. And don’t take any
shite over there. Any trouble and you call me, you hear?’
I nodded before being enveloped in a bone-crushing
hug. It marked the end of our conversation; she turned
and walked out the door.
I checked my compact mirror, groaning at my tear-
stained reflection as I dabbed away the mascara smudges
beneath my eyes. I cast one last, lingering gaze around
the room. Seagulls screeched outside the kitchen window,
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fighting in mid-flight. I shook my head, wondering what
state the place would be in when I came back. As for me …
how would I be when I returned, no longer carrying the
baby that was constantly in my thoughts? The prospect
weighed heavy on my mind as I felt the monumen-
tal change ahead. Would I be able to give my firstborn
away? But some mistakes were impossible to get past.
Had Dympna known the truth, she would have pushed
me out the door.
I found myself redoing my make-up in Dublin airport.
There was no way I was turning up in New York looking
like a panda. Dympna had said they should take me as I
was; it was my baby they were buying, not me. Her com-
ments were barbed, a reflection of her concerns. I spent
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