by Clare Boyd
The hours rolled on at Byworth End, in a hazy, muted clump of time, gruelling and fraught. John was busy, engaged with the logistics of Dilys’ dead body, and the procedures of his mother’s arrest and charge. The children’s strange, quiet resilience was punctured only by Beatrice’s frequent tantrums, which poked at the tension in the house like a stick at a bomb.
John wanted to stay at Byworth End with his father overnight, to look after him until they knew what was going to happen to his mother.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ Francesca asked, before she left. ‘I can stay. Honestly.’
‘No, get Alice home. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Any time, day or night, about anything, okay?’
She hugged him and he felt heady with her in his arms, and heady with shock.
Once she was gone, he gathered his three children and snuggled them into the television den to watch a film. He chose one of their favourites, High Society, for its innocence.
About halfway through the film, Olivia jumped down from the sofa and pressed her nose up to the window.
‘Daddy! Look out there!’ Olivia cried, grabbing the remote and pressing ‘pause’ on the film. She pointed outside, into the dusky garden.
Glinting from a clump of bushes, John spotted a large telephoto lens pointing right at his three children on the sofa. The three of them began cackling and jumping about, nervously, outrageously, inappropriately.
Beatrice cried, ‘We’re going to be famous!’
John drew the curtains and sought out his father, who was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, staring at the ceiling.
‘Dad. There’s a photographer in the garden taking photos of the kids. And I’m worried there might be more of them outside the gates,’ John warned. ‘Will you check? Or get Valentina to check?’
His father stirred, sitting slowly, sighing. ‘I’ll check.’
From the hall window, John watched the lights of his father’s Jaguar swing around the drive and off past the silver birch.
His father returned with a grim face, slamming his keys into the bowl on the side-table.
‘They’re swarming out there. There’s even a camera crew and a van. There must be twenty or so of those cretins.’
‘I’ll call the police. We’ll have to keep the kids inside tomorrow.’
It appeared that it was not a secure house for them any more, that it was littered with insidious dangers.
‘I’m going to bed,’ his father said.
As he watched his father’s stooped form retreat upstairs to bed, John reminded himself that they had never been secure and safe here.
He double-locked the big oak door.
His parents had kept their family secrets under lock and key for so long. But his mother’s secret had destroyed Robert; and John’s affair with Francesca had destroyed Dilys.
Two secrets. Two dead.
To avoid further unrest, further grief, to continue upholding some fragment of the Tennant family unit, John knew that he would have to leave his own secret – the third secret – there, within its secret passageways, behind his panels, to twist and scream with the other ghosts of their past. He wanted out.
There and then – parked alone on the antique black and white tiles, staring at a burst of his mother’s blood-red tulips in a vase, eyed by the glassy black beads in the deer-head – John decided that he would take his children as far away from Byworth End as possible.
He wished, with a heavy heart, that he had done it many years before.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Francesca
John closed his laptop when I came in. Beyond his desk, through the bay window and across the road, sparks of sunlight shot off the sea.
‘Busy?’
‘No. Come in. Sit.’
A wooden-framed armchair, upholstered in blue and white linen, was placed near the large desk at the window. Across the expanse of whitewashed floorboards behind us was a double bed, covered in an array of white mohair cushions and throws. I sat down, and brought my knees up to my chest.
‘What do you think of the room?’
He twisted his chair to face me.
‘Perfect. I’ve been writing.’ His eyes were bright.
‘What are you writing?’
‘Dunno really. A load of twisted crap, probably. But it’s helping.’
‘That’s great, John.’ I pulled out the notepad that Jo had given me. ‘Numbers for a recommended physio.’
‘Thanks.’ He toyed with it, flicking at the pages. ‘I like Jo.’
‘There’s such a great community down here. A proper arts scene. Painters and songwriters and novelists.’
‘It suits you.’ He said, looking right into my soul.
‘I’ve been happy. Considering everything. So has Alice.’
‘When do I get to see her?’
‘I’ll bring her round after school.’ I picked at a loose thread on the chair. ‘We have to tell her at some stage.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes.’
He scratched his fingers through his hair and inhaled sharply. ‘Yes. We must.’
‘She was telling me all about Mary at school. She has a new daddy. And, apparently, Mary got to be a bridesmaid at her mummy’s wedding to her new daddy. She was horrified that Mary could have two daddies when she only had one. She’s obsessed with other people’s daddies. She wants one of her own.’
John chuckled. ‘No pressure then.’ And then his face darkened. ‘I haven’t told my lot yet, obviously.’
‘How are they coping?’
He pushed his phone across the desk. ‘As well as can be expected.’
‘They’ve been very brave.’
‘Harry is furious we’re here.’
‘What choice did you have?’
‘I wish Dad had come with us.’
‘Valentina will protect him from those reporters.’
He turned back to his computer. ‘It feels good to hide away for a bit.’
‘The interest will die down after her funeral.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Look. I’ve got some cutting-in to do upstairs. Call if you need me.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’m well set up here.’
‘Fancy a walk at lunch?’
‘A walk?’
‘Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.’
He laughed. ‘A walk sounds good.’
* * *
Alice sat on John’s knee as he wheeled himself across the road to the seafront. I carried my fold-out beach chair.
Beatrice’s head of blonde curls bobbed up above the pebbles and ran at us.
‘Alice!’ she cried, grabbing Alice’s hand.
Alice jumped off John’s knees. ‘Can we paddle, Mummy?’
The wind whipped off the sea. ‘It’ll be freezing,’ I warned.
‘Don’t care!’ They cried in unison, running off.
I could see Harry and Olivia in the distance, sitting with their backs into the groyne, scowls on their faces.
‘They love it here.’ John laughed.
‘Poor things.’
I opened up my chair and put it next to his on the promenade. My feet kicked at the shingle in front of us.
‘We’ll look after them,’ I said, looking across at John.
His hair blew across his face. I reached out and pushed it back from his grey, honest eyes. ‘Yes, we will,’ he said.
I pulled his hand into my lap and cradled it there, looking out at the crashing waves. They were loud and aggressive and I imagined that Robert might be roiled and caught in each curl, trying to get at us but being unable to. I inhaled and exhaled. I’m sorry, Robert, my love, I’m so sorry, I said to him.
Robert had made his choice. And I had made mine.
Epilogue
Robert and Sanjeev could hear a bang on the corrugated iron shutter over the shop frontage.
‘Who’s that?’ Sanjeev dropped the gaming remote and handed Robert the fat reefer jamme
d with chronic. Robert raised his head slightly from the back of the sofa to grab the roll-up and dropped his head back down again to inhale, feeling the dizzying pound of a hangover before he was even sober.
‘It might be Fran,’ Robert groaned.
‘Do I look all right?’ Sanjeev asked, standing straight.
Robert inspected his friend. His eyes were bloodshot and his stubble two days old. Robert guffawed. ‘Tuck your shirt in, you reprobate.’ Sanjeev tucked his buttoned-to-the-neck blue shirt into his black jeans. The gold rings shone from his hands.
He disappeared downstairs. ‘Who’s there?’ Sanjeev shouted gruffly through the door.
Robert heard the locks being cracked open and the crash of the corrugated shutter being pulled up. Then he heard Sanjeev’s tread up the stairs again.
‘It’s your bro. He wants a word. Looks like he’s got the major hump.’
They both sniggered like a couple of teenagers.
Robert tried to focus as he walked carefully downstairs, but he stumbled on the final stair.
‘Where did you go?’ John asked.
His brother’s handsome face was earnest and caring, and Robert wanted to punch it.
‘Here?’
‘We were waiting for you at the flat.’
‘Sorry, bro,’ Robert said, sounding a bit like Sanjeev, a bit like a bitter and sarcastic bastard.
John sighed. ‘Fran’s pissed off you didn’t come back.’
‘Is that any of your business?’
‘Okay. I tried. See you, Robert.’ John began to walk away.
Robert came after him, tugging at his shoulder aggressively.
‘Make sure you head to the tube station rather than back to my wife.’
John swivelled around, surprising Robert, whose brain was slow with whisky and drugs.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I see how you look at her.’
‘You’re drunk,’ John said, walking away again.
Robert felt a surge of pent-up rage towards his self-contained, gentle little brother. He knew how John felt about Francesca, and it threatened him. The smug fuck will never get his hands on her, Robert thought. Any other man could have her, but not John.
‘She’s not the angel you think she is, you know. You might be in with a shot,’ Robert goaded.
‘Jesus! That’s rich, coming from you. Look at the state of you.’
‘Yeah, but who is she fucking every night. Me or you?’
John’s face flashed orange under the streetlight as he stormed towards Robert. Before he could run inside, Robert’s feet were off the ground and he was winded as John slammed him into the side of the metal shop front.
‘Don’t. Talk. About. Her. Like. THAT,’ John bellowed, right into his face.
Robert dropped his sneer. Suddenly, he knew.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he slurred, feeling spittle down his chin and tears pressing at his eyes. His drunken aggression flipped into self-pity.
John let him go. ‘Me, what?’
‘You fucked her, didn’t you?’
John looked at him, square in the face. Robert knew when his little brother was about to confess to a bad thing. He knew John better than anyone.
‘No.’
‘You’re lying!’ Robert threw his head back and howled into the London streets.
John stood there, seemingly frozen to the spot.
Sanjeev appeared. ‘What’s going on?’
Triggered by Sanjeev’s presence, Robert lunged at John, but he felt Sanjeev’s arms around his waist, pulling him back.
John stepped back. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
And Robert collapsed into Sanjeev’s arms and sobbed and wailed.
Through his tears, he watched John walk away and he broke from Sanjeev and ran after John. He wanted to find him and he wanted to kill him. He ran and ran, around the streets, in a rage, in a rage so great he thought his skull would split open.
When he came to Hornsey Bridge, he saw John on the other side. The roar of traffic was below his feet. A lorry raced past his ear.
‘Robert!’ John cried, jogging towards him.
Robert saw distress in his little brother’s face. He loved him, right down deep in his soul. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. He would give him what he wanted. He would give him Francesca and Alice. He deserved them more than he did.
The railings were not high enough to stop him.
There was a reason he was here, on this bridge. It was a gift. It offered respite from the agony. His tears blurred his view of John, and the spikes gouged his skin, but he clambered over the barrier and he flew. He flew away from his brother’s outstretched hands, and the torment of his betrayal. He flew away from the heartache of losing his baby daughter. He flew away from the love of his life. And he flew away from his addiction. To peace. Finally. For peace.
Absolutely gripped by the nail-biting suspense in Three Secrets? Buy Little Liar right now for another heart-in-your-mouth psychological thriller about the people we choose to trust and the secrets we keep behind closed doors.
Little Liar
Get it here!
The perfect family... or the perfect lie?
To the outside world, Gemma Bradley has it all – a doting husband, high-flying career and two delightful kids – but inside the four walls of her tastefully renovated home, she is a mother at her wits’ end who has given too many last warnings and counted to ten too many times.
When a child’s scream pierces the night, Gemma’s neighbour does what anyone would do: she calls the police. She wants to make sure that Rosie, the little girl next door, is safe.
Gemma knows she hasn’t done anything wrong, but the more she fights to defend the family she loves, the more her flawless life begins to crumble around her. Is the carefully guarded secret she’s been keeping suddenly in danger of breaking free?
When Rosie disappears, Gemma thinks she only has herself to blame. That is, until she discovers that Rosie has been keeping dark secrets of her own in a pink plastic diary.
Distraught and terrified, Gemma doesn’t know where to turn. The only thing she knows is that her daughter’s life is in danger…
Little Liar is a heart-in-your-mouth psychological thriller about the people we choose to trust and the secrets we keep behind closed doors. If you loved The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl or anything by B.A. Paris you’ll be totally and utterly gripped.
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Also by Clare Boyd
Little Liar
Three Secrets
A Letter From Clare
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading my book!
The writing of this story – my second published book – has been quite a journey. Strangely, while my characters were pill-popping and being hospitalised, I, too, was in recovery from a badly broken leg, for which I needed to consume truckloads of pharmaceuticals following surgery. I don’t know whether this was a bonus, in terms of authenticity, or a downfall, in terms of coherence. But I do hope the book has led you on a similar rollercoaster to the one I experienced following my accident, albeit rather more extreme! If you want to know what I’m going to be writing next, please click on the sign-up link here to stay up to date.
Sign up here!
In this book, I wanted to write about dysfunctional families and the secrets that fester. Like the Tennants, I come from a wonderfully dysfunctional family, with many sad stories to draw from. However, unlike the Tennants, we remain very close, which I attribute to our ability to face up to the past, and to analyse the emotional impact our childhoods had on our behaviour as adults. As my friends will testify, I am a zealot about talking therapy. I believe the sharing of secrets, with the right people, in a safe environment, can profoun
dly heal, nourish and liberate us from the pain in our hearts. The Tennants, by burying their past, imploded. Robert self-medicated and formed addictions that exacerbated his internal turmoil. If only he had been less frightened of his mental health issues and had found the help he needed.
Many people do not find that help. I was shocked and saddened to learn recently that the biggest killer of men under 45 in the UK is suicide. This fact is deeply unsettling. I imagine that many of these men suffered in silence unnecessarily, as Robert Tennant did in my story.
Lastly, please do write a review for Three Secrets if you enjoyed reading it. And please email me, or follow me on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. See below for details. I am always utterly thrilled to hear from my readers.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read my book.
With very best wishes,
Clare
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all of those who have helped me in the writing of this book.
As ever, I would like to thank my agent, Broo Doherty, who is a continual support. Although, after reading the first draft, she told me she was scared for my husband!
Huge thanks to my wonderful editor, Jessie Botterill, who works insanely hard, and continues to remind me that my characters need a narrative! And to the amazing Bookouture team, who have somehow managed to find me so many readers.
