Best Eaten Cold: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down.

by Tony Salter

  What he was probably worried about was making sure his little son became my problem again before he started crying, but I resisted saying anything.

  I eased Sam into his sleepsuit and, after a quick feed, put him in his cradle. We both stood and watched as he scrunched his face, wriggled his arms and legs a few times and then slowly melted into sleep.

  I was exhausted but I could have sat and looked at him for ever. Such a perfect little thing. Impossible to believe the two of us had created that life.

  I was awake long enough to register Rupert putting a pillow under my head and kissing me on the cheek. I don't know if he heard me mumble 'Grazie caro mio. I love you ...' before I drifted off.

  I was determined to begin writing a diary. I'd lost the habit when I was at university and had been banging on about starting again for years. Sam's birth was the perfect trigger as I didn't want to forget a single thought or feeling.

  Rupert had offered to set me up on a web-based diary site but, like everything else in life was moving online, I insisted on doing it the old-fashioned way. There was something about the tactile presence of a physical sheet of paper – the restrained pace and rhythm of the pen following words onto the page. I also loved the action of opening and closing the diary before and after each entry. It gave a sense of permanence and, for me, brought back memories of childish excitement – secret thoughts safely locked away by a pink ribbon.

  We compromised as we usually did. Rupert set up a page on a website called LifeCake – social media for your baby – where we could post photos and thoughts about Sam as he grew and which we could share with friends and family, but he also bought me a beautiful brown leather diary with soft, creamy, unlined pages and a black ribbon. I was, after all, a twenty-eight-year-old married mother and my days of pink ribbons were definitely over.

  I made my first entry when I got up to check on Sam in the middle of the night. I was exhausted but wanted to set down a few words to remind me of the feelings of pure, naked euphoria which were threatening to overwhelm me.

  I failed miserably. How do you put those kinds of emotions into words? But it was good to have tried and I never missed a day after that, through good times and bad.

  By writing down my feelings of joy and gratitude, I hoped to avoid jinxing things again. After so many stupid mistakes in the past. I knew I didn't deserve this fairytale happiness; all I could do was cross my fingers and hope things would turn out differently this time.

  I hadn't held on to much of my former life; there was only enough to half fill the olive-green shoebox where I kept my personal papers.

  I rested the new diary carefully on top of the mess of documents: old passports; birth certificate; marriage certificate; the paper part of my driving license; my parents' death certificate; the boring, recycled record of my existence.

  I was just closing the lid when a flash of pink shouted out from the drabness. My teenage diary was half-hiding at the bottom of the box, hiding badly in its garish, vinyl shell. Little wonder that I'd wanted to move on to something classier.

  My mum and dad had given it to me for my thirteenth birthday and, although I'd almost grown out of the pink diary stage of life by then, I'd ended up being quite a diligent diarist for a few years. The small volume was packed with my teenage hopes, dreams and reality: boys, smoking, drinking, a career as a famous model/singer/actress/poet, the usual.

  The writing was excruciatingly childish and embarrassing and, as I leafed through my adolescence, I scrawled a mental Post-It to burn the diary sooner rather than later.

  There was one exception. I knew what I was looking for and turned to the final entry, made three years after its closest neighbour. It had been written by a different person. An adult.

  12th June 2007

  I never thought I'd write here again, but I had to talk to somebody.

  I've had the most incredible week of my life. Probably the most amazing experience I'll ever have.

  The trip to Germany and the G8 protests were massive 'firsts' anyway. I've never done anything like that before. I've never even been out of England.

  There were thousands of us, continuous noise and tension everywhere, and the toilets were unbelievably disgusting. I've led such a sheltered life. It's pathetic.

  But that wasn't it. I need to write about Jax.

  I'd been put in her tent, but she didn't have much time for me to begin with. Jax had been going to demos for three or four years and spent most of her time with the hardcore protesters. Most of the time, I wasn't sure she even knew I was there.

  But I noticed her. Even though she was ignoring me, I could already feel it – the fire which always burns inside her like a tiny sun.

  She's not that beautiful. Slim and pretty enough with fragile, porcelain features framed by a short, spiky frizz of dark hair. She moves with a dancer's grace and, while she looks fragile, she's not at all - every muscle, every sinew is iron hard and sometimes I imagine I can actually see her skin glowing.

  Most of the time, her body and her features are at rest, a sullen slouch which has a little 'don't mess with me' about it, but just a little. It's only when something lights the fire inside that you see the true Jax, or rather one of the true Jaxes.

  If something makes her angry or she feels threatened, she becomes a cornered vixen oozing defensive aggression. That was the only side of her I saw during those first days and even then, just once or twice. Her anger isn't something I would ever want directed at me.

  It wasn't until I saw the other side that I understood how special Jax really is.

  She wanted to borrow a towel from Kurt, who was one of the hard-arsed communist bureaucrats-in-waiting at the reception tent. Kurt was dismissive to begin with, spouting tired, comradely explanations of why he couldn't help, why making an exception would destroy the people's project.

  Jax let him finish and then she simply looked at him and smiled. I saw the light of that single smile reflected in his eyes and watched as his resistance evaporated. He reached for the towel and handed it to her without another word.

  It was then that I first realised how much I wanted her to shine that light on me. I wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted before.

  I only had to wait two more days for my wish to come true, but they were such long days. I spent my time with Daz who was sweet and kind, but all I could do was to think about her. I struggled to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time and, with Jax breathing softly only an arms length away, I hardly slept.

  And then it happened.

  I wasn't expecting it. The big protest was planned for the following morning, everyone was tense, and the camp was dark and strangely quiet as I walked over to the wash area to clean my teeth. A couple of bare, yellow bulbs were creating golden puddles in the corner of the tent and I saw that Jax was already there, standing by one of the metal basins.

  She asked to borrow my toothpaste and, as I handed it to her, our fingertips touched. She smiled.

  It was like being bathed in liquid honey. We stood silently, a single statue joined through those few square millimetres of skin contact. I felt her strength and passion flow through me, an electric river which thrilled every cell of my body.

  It was a moment from Greek mythology. Jax is a Goddess – fascinating and frightening, intense and in control. I couldn't believe she cared about me.

  But then she leant forward slowly, rested her warm fingers against my cheek, and kissed me.

  That was it. We've been together every moment since. It's like a fabulous dream - every sound, every touch, every colour is brighter and richer than before. I'm floating above my old life which now seems drab and uninteresting in comparison.

  All I want is to be with her and, for some wonderful, inexplicable reason, she seems to want to be with me.

  Is this what love is?

  Family Life

  If you use a standard online email provider, even inexperienced hackers can easily capture your primary password as long as they have ac
cess to your email address and mobile number. (Detailed procedure: Ch 7, Section 5). In most cases, this then gives them full access to all of your emails, contacts, calendar, photos and personal documents without your knowledge.

  "How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015

  The first five or six weeks after Sam was born were a blur of new experiences and showing off. I'd heard some horror stories about sleeping problems, eating problems, colic, jaundice or parents too afraid to touch the baby in case they break it. You name it, every one of these disasters was lying in wait for me and Rupert. As it turned out, we were either incredibly lucky or amazingly talented new parents and most things went smoothly. Apart from the sleeping, of course.

  I had a great midwife and a health visitor who made me feel confident and vaguely in control. She was called Joyce and was one of those slightly annoying people who seem to be happy all of the time. Her smile looked 'genuinely' genuine, not forced at all, and she radiated peace and satisfaction.

  After her first visit I'd been left feeling strangely envious and sad, which didn't make much sense when I looked at how lucky I actually was.

  She'd finished weighing Sam and he was lying happily on his blanket looking up at his new mobile and watching the sun glint off the shiny silver angel's wings which dangled protectively above him.

  I handed Joyce a cup of tea.

  'Everything seems fine,' she said, closing her notebook. 'His weight is right in the middle of the range and that rash has gone away completely. He's a lovely little boy.' She took a big slurp of her tea and looked at me. 'What about you, Fabiola? How are you coping?'

  'I'm fine,' I said. 'Tired, of course. He's up for a feed two or three times in the night. Rupert would help if he could, but he's got a lot of work on at the moment. Pretty normal stuff I suppose.'

  'Hmmm. Maybe? Is there such a thing as normal? You sure you're all right?'

  'I'm sure, There's no need for you to worry.'

  'You do look tired and a bit gaunt. Have you lost weight?'

  'A little. I sometimes forget to eat, what with everything else.'

  'I understand,' she said, taking my hand in hers. 'It's a difficult time for all young mothers. But you must look after yourself. It's important you keep up your strength.'

  'I know and I will make a point of it. Thank you.'

  'What about little Sam? Are you enjoying being with him?'

  'Oh yes,' I replied. 'He's the most perfect baby. Every time I look at him, my heart skips a beat. We're fine, really. Everything's OK.'

  Joyce hadn't finished with me. 'What about friends?' she asked. 'You've not lived here long, have you?'

  'No, it's less than a year since we moved out of London and I've taken a while to settle in.' I didn't particularly want to go into the details of my non-existent social life. 'Rupert grew up in Oxford and still knows a lot of people. And he's got his work, of course.'

  'And family?' said Joyce, the bit clearly between her teeth. 'Are any of your family nearby?'

  'My parents are both dead, but Rupert's parents are still in the same house he grew up in. It's only up the road, so we see quite a lot of them. Especially his mum.' I rolled my eyes. 'She's here most days.'

  Joyce smiled. 'How's that working out for you? I think I'd have killed my mother-in-law if I'd seen her every day. Especially straight after my first was born.'

  I couldn't hold back my snort of laughter. Joyce had a great deadpan way of saying things. 'Surprisingly well,' I said. 'I was dreading it before but, somewhat ironically, Virginia's visits have turned out to be the high point of my day.'

  'Why somewhat ironically?'

  'Have you met Rupert's mum?' I said, still giggling.

  Joyce shook her head.

  'Well, she's quite proper. Very posh. And I don't think she's ever approved of me.'

  'But you're getting on OK?'

  'Yeah. She's great with Sam and mostly manages to keep her mouth shut when she thinks I'm doing something wrong. And, let's face it, if it wasn't for her I probably wouldn't see anyone all day.'

  'Sounds a bit lonely,' said Joyce, standing and picking up her bag. 'It'd be good if you could get out a bit more. Join some baby groups. There's a lot going on round here for young mothers.' She walked out to the hall. 'I've left a couple of leaflets on the table.'

  'Thanks Joyce,' I said, as I opened the door for her. 'I'll do that.'

  She set off down the path and, as I watched her cheery, bouncing stride, I was shocked by how pathetic and lonely my answers had sounded. That wasn't me. I would need to get my act together.

  I heard the key in the front door about two hours after Joyce had left and just as Sam was waking from his nap.

  'Yoo-hoo. Only me.'

  'I'm in Sam's room,' I shouted. 'Getting him up. Why don't you put the kettle on? I'll be through in a minute.'

  By the time we got out to the kitchen, the tea was made and the table laid neatly with proper cups and a plate of fresh home-made blueberry muffins centre stage.

  Virginia gave me a polite hug and a kiss and reached out for Sam.

  'Come here, you lovely little boy,' she said. 'Did you have a nice sleep?'

  'I don't know how you do it,' I said, handing him over. 'Those muffins look amazing.'

  'Oh those.' She waved one hand dismissively. 'I knocked those up this morning. They're easy to make and I thought you needed fattening up.'

  That was rich coming from her. Thin as a rake, I doubted if she'd manage a single mouthful of muffin herself.

  'You're the second person to say that to me today,' I said. 'Maybe I should listen?'

  'Important to keep up your strength for this little one.' Sam was lying happily in her arms, looking up at her with eyes wide open, his tiny, pudgy fists squeezing each of her little fingers as hard as he could.

  'Message received,' I said, grabbing a muffin. 'I'll start with one of these.'

  Virginia smiled. She was making me feel like a broodmare, but right then I was happy enough to accept the role. As long as it came with freshly-baked muffins.

  While I was feeding Sam, we chatted about this and that for twenty minutes or so. There was definitely something important on her mind though; the small talk was her clumsy version of a polite introduction to the real subject.

  'I've been thinking about Sam's christening,' she said eventually. 'Have you had any thoughts?'

  'No. Sorry. None at all. I struggle to think about anything these days.'

  'Of course. That's completely understandable. Is he still up in the night?'

  'At least twice, sometimes more. I'm in a total daze most of the time. It's getting better though.'

  'Good.' Virginia smiled as I put Sam down onto his play mat. 'In the meantime, I'd be happy to take on boring tasks like the christening if you'd like.' She waited until I was sitting down again. 'I assume you actually want a christening?'

  We'd had the audacity to get married, just the two of us on a beach in Thailand, without telling anyone in Rupert's family; there was still plenty of smouldering resentment about that, and I had no intention of making things worse by refusing a christening.

  The fact she was offering to organise it was no surprise. Virginia loved that sort of social event and, more than anything, she loved to be in control.

  'Of course we do and it would be great if you could help. Thank you, Virginia.'

  'You're welcome. That's what family's for,' she said, visibly relaxing. 'There are a couple of tricky issues though ...'

  'Really? What?'

  'Well, obviously, we'd love to have it in our village. At St Peter's. It's a beautiful church, we know the vicar well, and we could have the reception in our garden right next door.'

  'It sounds lovely,' I said. 'What's the problem?'

  'Well, you're a Catholic aren't you?'

  'Oh, I get it,' I said, relieved that she'd finally got to the point. 'Don't worry about that. I am a Catholic, but I'
m not exactly practising. As you say, St Peter's is a lovely location and your garden is fabulous.'

  I was obviously saying all of the right things and Virginia smiled. 'That's a relief,' she said. 'I must admit I've been worrying about it for a while. These things can be so difficult.'

  I couldn't help thinking the world was full of slightly more difficult things, but it wasn't the time or place.

  'It's really no big deal. As far as I'm concerned, Sam can make his own choices about religion when he's grown up.'

  'What about your friends and family? How many do you expect to come?'

  'I'm not sure there'll be any family,' I said, looking for a stone to crawl under. 'Since my parents died, I've lost touch with most of them.'

  'That would be a shame,' she said. 'But it's completely up to you, of course. I'll just need to know numbers at some point.'

  'Of course. I might get in touch with some old university friends, but need to think about it. Would it be easiest if you co-ordinated the guest list with Rupert?'

  I suspected the christening guest list was one of those family minefields, like 'who goes where at Christmas?', which was best avoided.

  Thinking back to where things began to go wrong, it probably all started there.

  On Thu, Sep 25 2015, at 9:33 AM, Rupert Blackwell wrote:

  Darling, Hope you're having a good day. Mum's just sent me suggestions for who to invite to the christening. I've attached the list. It's only family and their friends so far. Who do we want to add? She suggests a maximum of ten more which seems about right. Give Sam a kiss from me. See you at about six. Roop XXXX

  _____________________________

  On Thu, Sep 25, 2015 at 10:39 AM, Fabiola Blackwell wrote: