by Parks, Adele
About the Book
What would YOU do if your child wasn’t yours?
Alison is lucky and she knows it. She has the life she always craved, including a happy home with Jeff and their brilliant, vivacious teenage daughter, Katherine – the absolute centre of Alison’s world.
Then a knock at the door ends life as they know it.
Fifteen years ago, someone else took Alison’s baby from the hospital. And now Alison is facing the unthinkable. The daughter she brought home doesn’t belong to her.
When you have everything you dreamed of, there is everything to lose.
About Adele Parks
Author photo © Jim Parks
Adele Parks worked in advertising until she published the first of her sixteen novels in 2000. Since then, her Sunday Times bestsellers have been translated into twenty-six different languages. Adele spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right, so she works closely with The Reading Agency as an Ambassador for Reading Ahead, a programme designed to encourage adult literacy.
Want to find out more about Adele? Visit her website for the latest news on her upcoming events: www.adeleparks.com, head to Facebook for exclusive extras: facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks and chat with Adele on Twitter @adeleparks.
Acclaim for Adele Parks:
‘Sweet, sharp and simply unforgettable’ Lisa Jewell
‘A must-read. Romantic yet truthful’ Jenny Colgan
‘A beautifully written, thoughtful exploration of love and loss … This is Parks at the top of her consistently excellent game and is one of those rare books you won’t stop thinking about until long after you turn the final page’ Daily Mail
‘A wonderful exploration of love’ Katie Fforde
‘We can’t think of many authors who create more flawed and loveable characters’ Glamour
‘Adele Parks is a deft observer of human nature’ Kathleen Tessaro
‘Will captivate you from the first page’ Closer
‘A riveting read full of truths and tender moments’ Good Housekeeping
‘She is a particularly acute observer of relationship ups and downs, and her stories are always as insightful as they are entertaining’ Daily Mirror
‘Writes with wit and a keen eye for detail’ Guardian
‘Full of emotional set-pieces and real insight into relationships between men and women’ Heat
Copyright © 2016 Adele Parks
The right of Adele Parks to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Brighton Rock © Graham Greene 1938
First published in Great Britain in 1938 by William Heinemann
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
This Ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2016
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0545 2
Cover photographs © imagenavi/Getty Images (background), Pamela N. Martin/Getty Images (hanger) and Atsushi Yamada/Getty Images (female shadow). Hand-lettering © Carol Kempe
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Contents
Title Page
About the Book
About Adele Parks
Praise
Copyright Page
Also by Adele Parks
Prologue
Fifteen Years Ago
Chapter 1
Thirty Years Ago
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Thirty Years Ago
Chapter 5
Thirty Years Ago
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Thirty Years Ago
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Twenty-Two Years Ago
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Twenty-Two Years Ago
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Eighteen Years Ago
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
Have you read Adele’s other enthralling novels?
By Adele Parks
Playing Away
Game Over
Larger Than Life
The Other Woman’s Shoes
Still Thinking Of You
Husbands
Young Wives’ Tales
Happy Families (Quick Read)
Tell Me Something
Love Lies
Men I’ve Loved Before
About Last Night
Whatever It Takes
The State We’re In
Spare Brides
If You Go Away
The Stranger In My Home
Short Story Collections
Finding The One (ebook)
Happy Endings (ebook)
New Beginnings (ebook)
Love Is Complicated (ebook)
Love Is A Journey (paperback collection)
Prologue
The doorbell rings.
I feel a flutter of excitement: is it what I’ve been waiting for? I rush to the door before the bell rings a second time and fling it open, but it’s not what I’m expecting.
‘Alison Mitchell?’
‘Yes.’
It’s something to do with the way he says my name, tentatively but somehow officially. ‘Are you – look, I’m sorry. This is going to seem a bit peculiar.’ He breaks off and looks to the ground, awkward. ‘I just need to know, do you have a daughter who was born in St Mary’s Hospital in Clapham between March 27th and 29th fifteen years ago?’
‘Yes. Katherine; her birthday is the 27th.’ I’m so used to being honest and straightforward that I splutter out this response before I consider whether this is the sort of info that should be routinely exchanged, on the doormat, with a total stranger. He swaps his expression of awkwardness for one of panic. ‘Is Katherine in some sort of trouble?’ I ask, fearful.
His mouth twists as though the words he has to spit out taste foul. ‘Can I come in? This isn’t something we can talk about on the doorstep.
’
Fifteen Years Ago
The smell of hospital disinfectant and her own blood lingered in the air, but she hardly noticed. They swaddled the mewling, delicate baby and placed her in Alison’s outstretched arms. As she took hold and folded the small bundle into her, she knew that this is what her arms had ached for for so long.
People came and went: the nurses popped by to help her into a clean nightie, check she was comfortable; Jeff floated in and out of the ward, dashing off to make euphoric phone calls to family and friends, returning to relay their messages of joy and their congratulations. Alison and the baby were still, steady. They locked eyes – held each other’s gaze and hearts – until the baby’s lids grew heavy and sleep took hold. Even when the baby slept Alison couldn’t tear her eyes away. She was so perfect. Alison gently moved aside the blanket so she could gaze at her child’s legs, her arms, kiss the crook of her elbow and her butter-soft toes. She slept on and Alison continued to stare, mesmerised. It was love. Pure, unadulterated, unconditional, unending.
She had had an especially easy birth. In her birth plan she’d specified that she’d try any and all drugs to ease the pain and that she’d have a Caesarean if the experts thought that was the route to go; she trusted them to make the decision: they had the experience. As it happened, none of that was necessary; the baby took only four hours to arrive from start to finish as though keen to make her way into the world. Jeff smuggled in a mini-bottle of Moët. They secretly drank it together from plastic cups pinched from the water fountain. Naturally, he had the lion’s share; Alison managed just a couple of mouthfuls, as she fretted it would affect her milk. Under most circumstances, she’d have been discharged late that afternoon, but she was allowed to stay in hospital overnight. She’d been chatting to the nurses during labour – it really had been that comfortable – and told them she’d only just started her maternity leave the day before. She’d thought she might go back to work at some point and so she’d left it as late as possible before stopping, planning to maximise her time off with her baby, although from the moment she gave birth she guessed that had been unnecessary. She would never go back. Others might think that the mediocrity of her career and her paltry pay meant it wasn’t worth her while. The truth was, it was the amount she worshipped Katherine that meant it couldn’t be worth her while. She didn’t want to miss a moment.
She’d had ambitious, unrealistic nesting plans. In the two weeks she’d allotted between stopping work and the due date, she’d planned to have new windows put in the house. The rattling ones were not good enough now they were to have an infant at home. She knew the timing of her plans was tight but she had thought she was in control. The baby showed her she wasn’t by appearing eleven days early. The big relief was that their daughter was completely healthy, weighing in at an impressive seven pounds, two ounces; the nurses joked about how big she might have been if she’d gone full term! Still, Jeff had to rush home to chivvy along the window fitters and he returned crestfallen; the house was freezing, and the glaziers couldn’t possibly complete the job in a day. They said, at the hospital, as they weren’t busy, Alison could have the bed for the night; stay in for observation. They were doing her a favour. A kindness. The nurses insisted the baby went to the nursery because Alison almost fell to sleep holding her. They said she needed her rest.
‘Do you know, killer-whale and bottlenose-dolphin calves don’t sleep for a whole month after they’re born and, therefore, neither do their mothers?’ Jeff informed the nurses.
‘But the mother of your baby is not a killer whale,’ they replied with mock-sternness. In fact, the midwife and the nurses were charmed by Jeff, by Alison, by the baby. An easy birth, a besotted mum, a supportive dad, a beautiful, healthy baby. So much bonhomie swilled around the ward you could smell it on the bouquets, hear it in the cries, the mewlings, the laughter, taste it in the cosy cups of tea.
They carried her away into the nursery, where there were a number of bassinets, a number of newborn babies.
Each one of these tiny, seemingly inconsequential acts sets destinies.
They brought the baby to her three times in the night. By the third time Alison barely opened her eyes; she was surprised at the depth of sluggishness her body had dived into, following the euphoria of the birth. She felt her daughter’s head, then her cheek against her, then nuzzling, tugging. Hungry, animalistic rooting. She fastened so tightly to Alison’s flesh and Alison wept with relief and delight. At last, at last.
Jeff returned to the hospital at eleven the next morning. He had the car seat and several sets of baby clothes because he wasn’t sure which of the many squeezed into the little wardrobe Alison might prefer. She sensibly opted for a simple Babygro and a grey-and-white striped beanie hat; they could play with frills, bows and ribbons later.
‘Darling, can you bear the idea of staying with my parents for a day or so? The house is so draughty, but the glaziers swear they’ll be done by the end of the week.’
Alison nodded happily. She didn’t care where she was, as long as she was with her baby. Her mother-in-law would be a help, she was sure of it. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said to Jeff as he kissed first the baby’s head, then hers.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Sleeping in that cold house, all alone last night, when we had each other to snuggle.’ She brought the baby a fraction closer, kissed her cheek. ‘I couldn’t bear to miss a moment. She’s changed already. Don’t you think?’ Jeff smiled and sort of shrugged. ‘She seems a little longer, certainly smoother.’
He kissed Alison’s head again. ‘Maybe she’s stretched out a bit. That’s all the wonderful mothering you’ve been doing overnight. Now, are you going to feed her before we set off?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll try.’ Again the baby latched on to Alison’s breast with a natural ease which so many mothers would envy. She fed and fed until she wore a peculiar expression, a little like a satiated, happy drunk. She only, finally, let her mother go when her lids fluttered and closed and her small black hole of a mouth slipped to the side, when her cheeks were flushed and shiny with milk. Her dark eyelashes fanned out like a peacock’s tail.
1
‘Mum? Mum, is that you?’
‘Who else would it be? You should be asleep.’ But as I say this I push my daughter’s bedroom door and the hall light falls in a shaft across her room and lands on her bed. She’s lying down but her eyes are bright and wide; she’s beaming, holding an open book. This is how my fifteen year old rebels: she might occasionally read instead of turning the lights out. I know – I’m blessed.
‘It’s been a great day. Hasn’t it?’
‘It has,’ I agree.
Lingering, for even a moment, is all the encouragement she needs; she scoots over to one side of the bed, allowing me room to sit down. I don’t take much persuading, even though I know I ought to be insisting on lights out because there’s school tomorrow and, because Jeff and I seem to have less and less time to ourselves as Katherine gets older, I ought to go downstairs and make time for him. However, mum–daughter pre-sleep chats have always been irresistible to me. It seems only five minutes since we’d lie on this bed, her infant body, warm and uninhibited, curled tightly into me, and I’d read Each Peach Pear Plum to her. Now I can’t take such intimacy as an absolute given. Everything has to be continually renegotiated as she moves towards adulthood. I sit on the bed, then swing my legs up, lying flat and next to her now taut almost-woman body. I put my arm around her and she doesn’t object; to my delight, she squirms closer. I’ve been gifted another day of her childhood. I live in fear of the moment when she shrugs me off and feel like punching the air every time I get away with the joy of dousing her in affection.
‘What was your favourite bit of the match?’ she asks.
‘You winning,’ I reply automatically. Her beam, which already stretched across her entire face, widens a fraction more. That was the right answer. It’s always the right answer. Katherine, like all children, wan
ts to know that her parents have noticed she’s fabulous. That doesn’t stop at five, fifteen or forty-five: it’s eternal. She is fabulous, though, and I’m more than happy to chuck out endless compliments and affirmations. She scored two goals today; what a great start to the season. If she carries on like this then her team will certainly qualify for the finals of Rathbones National Schools Championship. I never played a team sport at school, let alone scored a winning goal. I live in awe of my talented daughter who, people say, might one day play lacrosse for GB.
Katherine starts to tell me what’s going on in her book. It’s set in a horrifying post-apocalyptic world, the sort that seems to fascinate so many teens. Some feisty heroine is plotting to murder a political tyrant in order to safeguard her family, who are all being exploited or tortured; it sounds pretty gory and a lot like the plot of the last book she read. I try to follow and show due interest but I can feel tiredness set into my limbs. It’s not yet ten o’clock but I could fall to sleep here next to her.
Jeff puts his head around the door. ‘I thought I’d find you in here.’ I know he’s mildly chastising me because he’s itching to pour himself a gin and tonic and see what’s new on Netflix. However, he’s putty in Katherine’s hands, too, and is also always up for a chat with her.
‘We’re just talking about the game.’
‘You were extraordinary,’ he says simply.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘You always are,’ I add. Katherine grins and blushes with that complicated teen mix of pleasure and embarrassment, whilst she tries to turn the subject from her achievements.
‘What’s your book, Dad?’ Jeff looks at the book in his hand. He appears to be somewhat surprised it’s there, but we’re not. He’s a novelist and, when he’s not sitting in front of his computer writing, then he is vociferously reading. He always has reading matter with him, it’s as though it’s surgically attached.
‘It’s about evolution.’
‘Oh.’ Katherine doesn’t actually roll her eyes but I can tell she’s not especially fascinated. Jeff apparently can’t, or at least chooses not to, acknowledge her disinterest.
