by Kate Field
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
Octavo House
West Bute Street
Cardiff
CF10 5LJ
Copyright © Kate Field 2017
The right of Kate Field to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786152381
eISBN 9781786152374
To Molly
With hope that one day you will love books as much as I do.
CHAPTER 1
It couldn’t be him – could it? Helen stopped dead and scanned the crowded pavement. Her head and her heart battled over what they wanted the answer to be. Her head won. Instinctively tightening her grip on Megan’s hand, she pushed open the nearest door with her bottom and backed inside, out of sight. She peered through the grimy glass window, anxiety thudding through her chest.
‘What are we doing, Mummy? Are we hiding?’
‘Yes.’ Helen’s attention was still outside. ‘Isn’t it fun?’
‘Is it the Gruffalo, Mummy? Are we hiding from the Gruffalo?’
‘Hmm, that’s right.’
‘Can you see him?’
She couldn’t: the phantom figure had vanished. She looked up and down the street, and saw nothing but ordinary families going about their shopping. Nothing to be alarmed about. Nothing to make her lungs freeze. She risked a tentative breath.
Helen felt a little hand squeeze hers. She turned away from the door and looked down. Megan was gazing at her, bright blue eyes – so like his that she couldn’t have forgotten him, even if she’d tried – screwed up worriedly.
‘Is he there? Outside?’
‘Is who there, sweetheart?’
‘The Gruffalo.’
Helen hauled her attention back to reality and bent down to kiss the top of Megan’s head. The familiar scent of strawberry shampoo wrapped round her like a comfort blanket. ‘Don’t worry, I was only playing hide and seek. I thought I saw someone I knew.’
But how could she have done? Rational thought trickled back into her brain. It was impossible that it had been Daniel. He was thousands of miles away. There was no need to panic, unsettled by the tilt of a man’s head and the roll of hips that had looked so desperately familiar. She should have moved on from these false sightings years ago. And that treacherous flicker of hope, defying all logic, that he might have come back for her… She wished she knew how to move on from that.
Helen reached for the door handle but a manicured hand blocked her way.
‘Is it a family holiday you’re looking for? We have some fabulous offers on Disneyland Paris at the moment. Free child places!’
Helen stared down at the brochure that had been thrust into her hand, silently cursing her bottom for steering her into the travel agents. Megan’s eyes widened at the images of Mickey Mouse dancing in front of her. Helen’s eyes were trapped by the happy family pictured on the front cover: mother, father, children. The contrast with her own life almost robbed her of breath again. She stuffed the brochure in her bag, and dragged Megan out of the shop as fast as they had come in. She steered a determined path through the shuffle of Saturday shoppers clogging the centre of town and up the hill past the shopping arcade, not slowing until the doors of St Andrew’s sealed shut behind her.
This was Helen’s sanctuary. A red brick church dominating the skyline on the northern edge of this faded Lancashire mill town, St Andrew’s had long since been deconsecrated and for the last fifteen years had been run as a craft centre. Eight retail units were tucked along the sides of what had once been the centre aisle, underneath the first-floor balcony, and the third along on the left, sandwiched between designer jewellery and handmade stationery, belonged to Helen. Crazy Little Things sold everything a needlework enthusiast could want, from tapestry threads and cross-stitch kits to dressmaking patterns and buttons.
Helen’s real passion was crazy patchwork. Irregular pieces of fabric, in any colour or texture, could be joined together and decorated with embroidered motifs, intricate seams and embellishments, to create a stunning piece of art – the more sumptuous the better. Some of her simpler work was on display at St Andrew’s: cushions, a woollen scarf, trinket boxes and hanging hearts. There wasn’t a huge return on these from the hours of love she put in to creating them, but they were priceless advertising for larger commissions, and had led to this afternoon’s appointment with a couple who wanted an embroidered family portrait. It was hard to survive a lifetime of being treated as decorative but useless without believing it; but against everyone’s expectations she was beginning to make a success of the business. She was earning enough to support herself and Megan. It was all she wanted. Almost all.
Helen hurried over to Crazy Little Things.
‘They haven’t arrived yet, have they?’ she asked Kirsty, her friend who ran the shop on Saturdays.
‘No, but they’re not due for another twenty minutes, are they?’ said Kirsty, glancing at her watch. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve sprinted all the way here.’
‘We’ve been playing hide and seek,’ Megan piped up helpfully. ‘Mummy saw someone she knew.’
‘Did she?’ Kirsty looked at Helen with a question that Helen chose not to answer. Perhaps their pace up the hill had been a little brisk. Megan was looking quite pink.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Megan said, in a plaintive tone perfectly calculated to capitalise on Helen’s guilt. ‘And hungry.’ She took a few hopeful steps in the direction of the coffee shop that had been created in the chancel at the head of the church. Helen laughed and caught her up.
‘Okay, let’s go and see what Joan can find for you.’
Joan was more than happy to hand the coffee shop over to the charge of her Saturday girls and help Megan with her colouring. Leaving Megan settled with a glass of milk and a slice of chocolate cake, Helen returned to her shop.
‘How’s business been this morning?’ she asked Kirsty. There wasn’t a single customer in St Andrew’s, which was worrying on a Saturday afternoon.
‘Not bad, actually. The usual bits and pieces, and I sold a couple of those Kaffe Fassett tapestry kits. But wait until you hear the best bit. A lady came in to look at your work after seeing your advert in the magazine.’
‘Already? It only came out this week.’ Now that Megan was past the age of needing constant attention, Helen had taken her first tentative steps to promote her crazy patchwork, rather than relying on interest drummed up by the shop. She had placed a quarter-page advert in a free local magazine: £30 she could scarcely afford, but perhaps it was about to pay off. ‘Did she like it?’
‘Loved it. She’s coming back on Tuesday lunchtime to discuss some ideas.’ Kirsty grinned. ‘You can celebrate tonight. How did you get on this morning? Are you all ready?’
‘Not quite. I still need to finish the hem on my dress, and then it will probably take a few hours to plaster on the make-up so I look halfway presentable. I may be going to a fortieth birthday party, but I don’t want to look like I’m anywhere near there yet…’
Helen’s voice trailed off. The doors of St Andrew’s had swung open and let in two women, one in her early sixties, one mid-twenties.
&
nbsp; ‘What a charming little place. Who would have thought it could exist in this town?’
Helen could never have mistaken that voice, even if she hadn’t recognised the older woman’s face.
‘I’m not here,’ she gasped, and dived behind the curtain that marked the private section at the back of the shop. Her heart racing faster than was good for it, she lurked behind the thick velvet, her eye pressed to the gap as the new arrivals advanced along the aisle.
As Helen was wondering whether to try a silent prayer for them to leave, the women’s attention was caught by the fabulous displays of jewellery next door. From her hiding place, Helen only dared risk the occasional peep, and she saw that the younger woman – a tall blonde she didn’t recognise – was poring over the glass cabinets until the impatient fidgeting of her companion hurried her on.
Helen retreated behind the curtain again. Surely they must be leaving now? Then she heard a voice, scarily close outside.
‘Look at this evening bag, Val. Isn’t it amazing?’
Helen pushed herself even further back. They must be looking at her crazy patchwork, but the compliment hardly even registered. Val? Since when had anyone dared abbreviate Valerie Blake?
‘And these cushions would look beautiful in your house, Val.’
‘Yes, I suppose they are quite attractive.’ Helen flinched at the memories stirred up by the tone of faint surprise. That tone had been directed at her frequently in the past, as if Valerie had found it astonishing when Helen had said something intelligent or done something useful. ‘But I expect it’s all done by machine.’
That slur was almost enough to drag Helen from her hiding place. She heard Kirsty launch her defence.
‘Actually, all the decorative detail on these pieces is done by hand,’ Kirsty said, adopting a much politer tone than Helen could have mustered. But then Kirsty didn’t know who she was talking to. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s a technique called crazy patchwork. All these items were designed and created by Helen, who owns this shop. She has a diploma from the Royal School of Needlework. She undertakes commissions, so do take a card.’
Helen stiffened. Under any other circumstances, this sales pitch would have been perfect, but was it too much to hope that Valerie Blake could see her name and not recognise it? Clearly it was. Helen heard a slight choking noise, and then Valerie’s voice again.
‘Helen Walters? Helen Walters did these?’ There was that note of surprise again, now veering on disbelief. There was an undercurrent, too, of something that in anyone else Helen would have described as panic. But Valerie Blake didn’t do panic.
‘And is she – Helen – here today?’
‘No, she’s not.’
Valerie’s relief was almost tangible.
‘Are you okay, Val?’ The younger woman had an accent that Helen couldn’t quite place – Australian? New Zealand? ‘Shall we have a drink? There’s a café over there.’
There was no time to think. They mustn’t go to the coffee shop. Megan was there. If Valerie saw Megan… Helen simply couldn’t allow it to happen. In desperation, she knocked a box of scissors to the floor, flinching as the sound crashed and echoed round the church. A second later Kirsty’s head appeared between the curtains.
‘Don’t let them go to Joan’s,’ Helen hissed at her. ‘Tell them I’m about to arrive. Do whatever it takes.’
Kirsty nodded, a good-enough friend to overlook that Helen had gone mad. Helen heard her call out.
‘Excuse me? If you’re staying for coffee, you’ll be able to meet Helen. She’s coming in this afternoon to see a client. I’m expecting her any minute now.’
Holding her breath so tightly it felt like her navel was glued against her spine, Helen listened as the footsteps stopped.
‘I think we’ll have to forego that pleasure this afternoon.’ Valerie’s voice rang out, more confident now. ‘We’re in quite a hurry. Perhaps another time.’
Not if Helen had any say in the matter. The footsteps started again, and she tried desperately to work out which way they were going, braced to jump out if the café was the target. At last she heard the front doors bang shut, and instantly the curtains in front of her were whipped aside.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Kirsty demanded. ‘Who was that? And why are you acting insanely and destroying your stock?’
‘That,’ replied Helen, collapsing onto a chair to relieve her wobbling legs, ‘was Valerie Blake.’
‘And she is…?’
‘Daniel Blake’s mother.’
‘And he is…?’
Helen hesitated. Could she say it?
‘Megan’s father,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ Helen managed a smile as Kirsty’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’ve heard enough stories about the life I used to lead in London to be sure that it wasn’t another virgin birth.’
Kirsty pulled up a stool.
‘You told me about the amazing parties and premières and all that sort of thing, but you’ve never mentioned him. I’ve never even heard his name. I assumed…’ She stopped, and grinned.
‘That I didn’t know it?’ Kirsty nodded, without a shred of embarrassment. Helen laughed. ‘I was never that bad.’
‘So what was it? Come on, I’ve been dying to know for the last four years, but you’ve been like a clam on the subject. Was it a one-night stand?’
‘No, we were together for over two years. Happy years.’ It was an inadequate way to describe what they had shared. Sometimes only silence was big enough to say what words could never explain.
‘Two years? And you’ve told me nothing about him?’ Kirsty’s eyes narrowed. ‘He abandoned you when he found you were pregnant, didn’t he? What a bastard.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Helen said. Quite the opposite, in fact. She sighed, as a familiar swell of longing spread through her. She really didn’t want to be thinking about him. It had taken years to climb to the level of fragile resignation she was at now. She couldn’t let one encounter with Valerie Blake bring her crashing back down.
‘So where is he?’ Kirsty wasn’t going to let this drop, full of the moral indignation of a happily married mother of two. ‘Why has he never visited Megan?’
Helen looked across at Kirsty – her best friend – the only real friend she had. They had shared everything over the last four years, every physical and emotional detail, except this one thing: the truth about Helen, the truth that no one else knew. Would Kirsty condemn her for what she had done? How could she not, when Helen condemned herself every day?
But it didn’t matter. The near miss with Valerie had made her reckless. She needed to confess.
‘Helen?’ Kirsty’s gentle nudge made up Helen’s mind.
‘He’s never visited because I didn’t tell him I was pregnant.’ Helen saw confusion cloud Kirsty’s face and pushed on quickly, before she lost her nerve. ‘He doesn’t know that Megan even exists. And as far as I’m concerned, he’s never going to find out.’
But as Helen fell silent, waiting for Kirsty to react, she was attacked by the thought that had been buzzing round her head, desperate to see the light since the first glimpse of Valerie. The initial shock of adrenalin faded, and the enormity of the coincidence sank in. Valerie Blake had appeared, minutes after Helen had thought she’d seen him. It could still be coincidence, of course it could. But what if it wasn’t? What if Daniel Blake wasn’t thousands of miles away after all?
CHAPTER 2
Craig’s fortieth birthday party was already in full swing when Helen arrived at the small country-house hotel in Cheshire hired exclusively for the event. She had never left Megan overnight before, and though she trusted Kirsty and her husband Ben implicitly, she’d still lingered too long over saying goodbye. The unexpected sighting of Valerie Blake had unsettled her, making her more reluctant to leave Megan than she had been before, especially for a night out where reminders of Daniel were sure to assault her at every t
urn.
She hesitated outside the door leading through to the bar, arrested by the laughter and chatter leaking from the room and the memories the sounds evoked. This had once been her natural habitat: one, maybe two parties each night, always at the centre of the pack and never doubting that was where she belonged. Now unfamiliar nerves flickered in her stomach, and when a guest held the door open, indicating for her to go in first, she stole through, avoiding the attention she would once have expected and even courted. She ordered a sparkling mineral water while she scoured the crowd, trying to spot a friendly face, and could hardly disguise her relief when she saw Sally, Craig’s wife, threading through the guests towards her, right hand vigorously waving.
‘Helen, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for ages.’ Sally kissed Helen’s cheek, then frowned at the drink in her hand. ‘What’s that?’ She took a sniff. ‘Water? You’re not having that. White wine, please,’ she called to the barman.
‘I’m pacing myself,’ Helen explained as Sally steered her away, a large glass of wine now replacing the water in her hand. ‘It’s one of the joys of being a single mother. I can’t get drunk. What if there’s an emergency with Megan?’
‘You call a taxi. How is Megan?’
‘Very excited to be having her first sleepover. I phoned Kirsty earlier and she’d gone off to sleep okay, so...’
‘I don’t mean about that… Oh for God’s sake,’ Sally said. ‘Uncle Stan has had too much already and is trying to start a conga. I’d better stop him. Hang on here a minute, there’s something I need to tell you.’
Sally dashed off, and Helen waited obediently, sipping at her wine. But when Uncle Stan proved harder to settle than expected, Sally made apologetic gestures at her across the room, and Helen wandered off. She lost sight of anyone she knew until Craig grabbed her as she was sneaking past the disco.
‘Hello!’ Craig shouted, still at disco volume. ‘It’s my birthday!’
‘I know!’ Helen laughed. ‘Are you having a good one? This is quite some party.’
‘Isn’t it? Sally has excelled herself. Are you on your own?’ He looked behind her, as if there might have been someone lurking there. ‘Not making the most of your night off with a hot young stud?’
