One in Three: the new addictive, twisty suspense with a twist you won’t see coming!

by Tess Stimson

‘No one’s going to hell!’ I exclaim angrily. ‘Bella, Catholics may be strict, but they believe in forgiveness, too. I can’t believe Taylor’s been telling you this nonsense. Of course you’re not going to hell!’

  ‘Not me, Mum!’ She raises her tear-stained face. ‘It’s Taylor who was pregnant. Not me.’

  I hate myself for it, but I can’t help a brief, selfish surge of relief. I feel desperately sorry for her friend, of course, but my daughter is my first concern. ‘Oh, Bell. I’m so sorry. Poor Taylor.’

  ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I hesitate. ‘I take it she hasn’t told her parents?’

  ‘I told you, they’re super strict. They’d never forgive her.’

  ‘This is a pretty big secret to hide, darling. You’d be surprised what a mother can forgive—’

  ‘No! You can’t say anything!’

  ‘It’s OK. I won’t break your confidence.’ I sigh, sadder than I could have imagined at the thought of such a young girl going through something as traumatic as an abortion without her mother by her side. ‘What about the baby’s father? Where was he in all of this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know who he is. All she said is, he’s married. I think it’s one of her dad’s friends – that’s another reason she can’t tell her parents.’

  I hope my shock doesn’t show on my face. Taylor is only seventeen. An affair with a married man twice her age, a secret abortion – it’s a lot for a child who’s still at school. And no matter how grown-up Taylor may seem, that’s what she is, legally and morally: a child. What kind of man gets a vulnerable teenager pregnant? Bella’s right: no wonder the girl’s afraid to tell her parents.

  If it were my daughter in trouble, I’d want to kill him.

  The day before the party

  Chapter 40

  Min

  I feel like I’m herding cats. No sooner do I get one of the boys clean and presentable, than another spills toothpaste on his new shirt or splits his trousers doing cartwheels down the hall.

  ‘Luke, could you watch Archie while I see what the twins are up to,’ I pant, corralling our youngest son in the corner of the hotel room and liberating a complimentary pot of boot polish from his sweaty hands. ‘Archie, I want you to sit on this chair and not move until I come and get you.’

  There’s a sudden wail from the bathroom. ‘Mum! The loo roll fell in!’

  ‘Sidney! Don’t you dare try to fish it out!’

  ‘Mu-u-m! There’s poo all over my hands!’

  Luke holds up one hand to me like a traffic policeman. ‘I’ve got it, Min.’

  ‘Sidney’s got poo on him!’ Archie shouts, leaping up and running into the corridor to find his brothers. ‘It’s disgusting!’

  I open the emergency suitcase I brought with me. Fifteen years of motherhood to four sons has taught me to bring backup outfits, a stash of gin, and plenty of wet wipes. I find Sidney’s spare polo shirt, and take it through to Luke, who has managed to get our son stripped naked to the waist in the bathroom. It’s very generous of Celia to treat us all to a weekend away at a five-star hotel, but I’m going to be on tenterhooks for the next forty-eight hours, trying to ensure the priceless Art Deco artefacts aren’t used for target practice, and that none of my children fall off the cliff or drown in the sea. It would’ve been so much more relaxing, on multiple fronts, if she’d just made the party adults-only.

  Eventually, we manage to get the four boys suited and booted, though I’m not entirely sure Dom’s Whitesnake T-shirt could be considered appropriate evening wear, but in comparison to the expletive-ridden hoodie he was wearing, it’s progress. I change into a forgiving navy linen cocktail dress, and go into the bathroom to sort out my hair, which has turned frizzy in the humidity.

  ‘Fancy a quick drink before we go down?’ Luke asks, appearing in the doorway.

  ‘Who’ll watch the kids?’

  ‘I bribed Dom and Jack to mind the other two for five minutes. A tenner each, and I’ll turn a blind eye to a beer later.’

  ‘In that case, make mine a double.’

  Luke hands me the large sweating glass of gin and tonic he was holding behind his back. ‘Thought you might say that.’

  I twist my unruly hair up into a loose chignon, and apply the finishing touches to my make-up, then join Luke out on the balcony. The breeze is a little cooler than I expected, and I’m grateful when my husband wraps his arms around me, the two of us gazing out across the sea like Kate and Leo on the prow of the Titanic. It’s possible to see the white horses breaking on hidden rocks between us and the mainland, and I can’t help a shiver. The thought of a boat hitting one of those deadly rocks in the dark, the poor souls on board lost to the treacherous currents, makes me feel oddly dizzy, as if I’ve just peered over a high ledge.

  ‘You looking forward to this weekend?’ Luke says, gently kissing my neck.

  I sigh. ‘I’m looking forward to it being safely in the rear-view mirror.’

  Luke gives me a reassuring squeeze. I rest the back of my head against his chest, hoping my sense of foreboding is misplaced. Lou has moved out of Andrew’s house, and given up the job at his wife’s office, both of which are steps in the right direction. As far as I know, she hasn’t seen him alone again, so there can’t have been a repetition of that disastrously mistaken kiss, but the last thing either of them needs is to be thrown together on an island for the weekend like this. I wish for the hundredth time Celia hadn’t got us all into this mess with her meddling. According to Luke, Lou actually phoned her mother yesterday and said she wanted Andrew and that woman to come. I don’t like to attribute any sinister motive to her sudden change of heart, but how can I not? A week ago she was accusing the woman of poisoning her cat, and now she wants her at her mother’s anniversary party?

  ‘Stop fretting,’ Luke murmurs. ‘I can read you like a book.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I say moodily. ‘Something bad’s going to happen, I can feel it in my waters.’

  ‘Give over, Gypsy Rose. It’ll be fine.’

  I’m about to argue, when I spot Andrew and his wife coming up towards the main hotel from the Beach House below us. Moments later, Tolly and Kit rush down the slope of the lawn towards them, the pair of them brandishing cheap plastic windmills.

  ‘Lou looks good,’ Luke says in surprise as his sister emerges onto the terrace to greet them. ‘Has she done something to her hair?’

  ‘I got her an appointment with Stephen on Wednesday,’ I say, taking a look. He’s right: Stephen’s taken off at least six inches and put in some highlights, and the blunt bob looks great on her. She’s wearing the stunning red dress I badgered her into buying, too. I wish now I hadn’t. Even from up here, I don’t miss Andrew’s double take when he sees her, and from the boot-faced look on his wife’s face, neither does she. I don’t have to be psychic to scent trouble ahead.

  ‘Come on,’ Luke says. ‘We’d better go down before the boys kick off again. A tenner each only buys you so much peace and quiet.’

  We round up the troops and clatter downstairs to the Palm Court bar, where everyone is already waiting for us. I’m busy trying to prise Dom and Jack’s phones out of their hands before their grandmother has a go at them, so for a moment I don’t notice Bella and her friend sitting quietly near the piano, locked in earnest conversation.

  And then suddenly I do notice them, and everything makes dreadful, shocking sense.

  Chapter 41

  Caz

  ‘Could you pass me my cufflinks?’ Andy says, fiddling with his shirt sleeves.

  I hand them to him. ‘I take it the whole family is going to be there?’

  ‘Of course.’ He tweaks his tie in the mirror. ‘That’s not going to be a problem, is it?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  I leave him to finish dressing and go out onto the deck, leaning on the railing and gazing across the vast, empty stretch of beach in front of me. A warm breeze lifts my hair as the tide
washes over the rocks below, and I’m briefly soothed by the susurration of the waves on the honey-coloured shingle. The rest of the Roberts family is staying up in the main hotel, but for some reason Celia has put the two of us down here at the separate Beach House, in the most breathtaking accommodation of all. Nestled into Burgh Island’s rock face, the villa has stunning panoramic sea views, and absolute privacy. I couldn’t have chosen a location to suit my purposes better myself. To paraphrase Ridley Scott’s famous Alien tagline: At the beach, no one can hear you scream.

  Andy finally emerges onto the balcony, looking suave and debonair in his black tie. The real monsters aren’t seamy, sleazy oddballs with lank hair and dead eyes who lurk in back alleys and dark corners. They’re pleasant family men who live among you, handsome and charming, the last people you’d ever suspect.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  I smile. ‘Looking forward to it.’

  But it’s all I can do not to flinch when he takes my bare arm. The touch of his hand on my skin makes me want to vomit. Another few hours, I tell myself. It will all be over in a few hours.

  Oddly, for such an important decision, I don’t remember actually making it. There was no internal debate, no moral dilemma. A lorry hurtles towards your child, and you fling yourself unthinkingly in its path. A bottle is thrown at you, and you duck. There’s no thought, no weighing up of options. Your survival instinct kicks in, whether you want it to or not. Stop him yourself, my mother said. The part of me that is Kit’s mother and Andy’s wife recoils in horror from what has to be done, but the other part of me, the darkest, most honest side, feels only recognition at its inevitability: yes, of course. This is how my story ends, how my story has always ended. I didn’t stop my father, but I can stop Andy.

  We walk up the cliff path to the hotel, and I feel oddly weightless and detached, as if I am watching myself from a distance. There is Caz, in her long grey silk column of a gown, arm in arm with her handsome husband in his black tie and gold cufflinks. Here comes their gorgeous little boy, running across the grass towards them, his russet-haired half-brother whooping in his wake, the two of them joyously brandishing plastic seaside windmills. Look at Caz bend down, exclaiming over her son’s toy. Look at her husband scoop a child up beneath each arm, whirling them around before placing them, laughing and stumbling, back on the ground. The perfect, photogenic, modern blended family.

  Stepbrother, I correct mentally. I’ve no idea who Tolly’s biological father really is, but it certainly isn’t Andy.

  ‘Mummy!’ Kit cries, thrusting the windmill at me. ‘Look what Gree gave me!’

  ‘How lovely, sweetheart. Have you and Tolly been having fun?’

  ‘He let me play with his mini-drone!’ my son exclaims. ‘You can make it fly in the air with just your hand! And he says I can play with his robot puppy later. Can I have a robot puppy, Mummy?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I say noncommittally.

  ‘Can Kit stay in my room tonight?’ Tolly asks.

  I smile at the little boy and ruffle his thick curls. Such gorgeous hair; I wonder if he gets it from his father. ‘Of course, if Mummy doesn’t mind.’

  Louise is standing in the doorway to the Palm Court, a carefree smile pinned to her face for Andy’s benefit. She’s clearly made a serious effort with her appearance this weekend. She’s had a new haircut, a razor-sharp reverse bob, which makes her fair hair look much thicker, and takes years off her. I detect Min Roberts’ hand behind both the hair and the stunning scarlet dress she’s wearing. Louise never usually wears colour. Her go-to palette favours drab greys and boring neutral sludge shades, what Celia would no doubt call ‘taupe’ and ‘bone’ and ‘ecru’, but which the rest of the world knows as beige. I shoot Andy a sideways glance, and see his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

  She steps out onto the terrace as we reach her. Andy goes to kiss her cheek, but for some reason, Louise subtly pretends not to notice and evades him.

  My eyes narrow. What does she know, this woman who was married to my husband for more than a decade? Does she have any idea what he’s done to her daughter? I would say it’s not possible, no woman would knowingly let this happen to her child, but of course I know from bitter experience that isn’t true.

  ‘How are you settling in down at the Beach House?’ Louise asks me as we watch the two boys chase each other around the lawn. ‘It’s such a lovely room. I know it’s a bit of a walk up to the main hotel, but so worth it, don’t you think?’

  I’m not about to admit this to Louise, but actually, I don’t think I’ve ever stayed anywhere this beautiful. According to the leaflet in our room, Agatha Christie wrote and set two of her novels at the Burgh Island Hotel. (‘It’s pronounced “Bear” Island, dear,’ Celia told me scathingly, when I called to confirm we’d be coming). When the books were turned into movies, they were filmed on location; I remember Hercule Poirot crossing the beach at low tide on the sea tractor. The romance of the image stayed with me, but I never dreamed I’d ever stay here. Sometimes I forget just how far I’ve come in the last ten years.

  ‘Where’s Bella?’ Andy asks, clicking his fingers to summon a waiter out onto the terrace. Normally I hate it when he behaves like that, but tonight, it barely registers. ‘She is joining us for dinner, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s gone down to the cove to meet her friend off the sea tractor,’ Louise says.

  ‘I thought it was just family tonight?’ Andy says irritably.

  Louise shrugs. ‘Bella wanted some moral support. Kit and Tolly have each other, and it’s a bit boring for her on her own, so Mum said it was OK for her to have her friend come early.’

  His jaw tightens. ‘Which friend?’

  Louise is distracted by the waiter hovering discreetly at her elbow, waiting to take our order. ‘We’ll have drinks inside,’ she says with patrician authority. ‘My mother hates sitting outside in the summer.’

  We follow her into the hotel. I can’t help a slight gasp as we enter, taken aback by the exquisite beauty of the high, domed Art Deco glass ceiling above our heads. ‘I know, isn’t it wonderful?’ Louise laughs, as if the credit for its breath-snatching loveliness belongs entirely to her.

  There’s the sound of chatter and laughter from the hotel reception. Moments later, Celia and Brian Roberts come into the Palm Court, followed by Bella and Taylor. I sense Andy stiffen beside me. Celia’s always made him oddly nervous. I suspect he’s afraid she’ll see right through his cufflinks and handmade shoes and pretentious middle-class veneer to the working-class boy beneath.

  ‘Andrew, darling, how lovely to see you,’ Celia says, ignoring me completely as she kisses Andy’s cheek. ‘You look marvellous with that tan. Min and Luke are just getting the boys ready for dinner upstairs; they’ll be down in a minute. Champagne, I think?’ she adds to the waiter, not bothering to wait for anyone to reply. ‘A bottle of Krug, please. We’ll need glasses for six.’

  She’s dressed head to toe in pale gold, with a wispy chiffon scarf trailing across her neck and down her back. For a woman of almost seventy, she’s in good shape, whippet-thin, her arms sinewy and muscular from hours every day in her garden. She looks like an Oscar statuette, and about as warm and welcoming.

  ‘Seven champagne glasses,’ Louise corrects. ‘Doesn’t Caz look lovely in that dress, Celia? Is it Armani?’

  Celia’s gimlet gaze sweeps me insultingly from head to toe. ‘Clever you. Thrift shop chic is so fashionable right now.’

  I smile. It doesn’t matter. Celia doesn’t matter. I’m floating free as a bird above them all, the Roberts clan with their secret codes and knowing smiles and ineffable air of superiority. They can say what they want, think what they want. In a few hours, their reign will be over.

  Andy abruptly pulls me to one side. ‘What’s that girl doing here?’ he hisses, indicating Taylor. ‘I thought it was supposed to just be family tonight?’

  ‘Louise already told you,’ I say, freeing myself from his grasp. ‘It’s boring for he
r if there’s no one else her own age here.’

  He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then Min and Luke arrive with their phalanx of sons, and I’m spared further contact. The waiter brings out the champagne, and I drink mine too fast. I have no qualms about what I am going to do, but it will take physical courage. The gap between intention and action is significant and bloody. I don’t want my nerve to fail me now.

  Ironically, Louise ensures I don’t get stuck in social Siberia at the kids’ end of the table this time, presumably to burnish her credentials with Bella, which means I have no choice but to make polite conversation with the adults instead of being left alone with my own thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well. The less time I have to think about tonight, the better.

  I’m not the only one on edge. Andy is particularly twitchy, shooting Louise furtive glances when he thinks I’m not looking. Bella and Taylor barely eat, the two of them whispering together and pushing their food around their plates. I wonder if Bella has confided in her friend. I notice Louise looking at them with concern in her eyes, too. She knows more than she’s letting on. How can she stand by and do nothing? She’s Bella’s mother! She should be protecting her daughter. If she knows what Andy has done, and has stood idly by, she deserves to burn in the same pit of hellfire as Andy himself.

  The dinner seems interminable, and I’m relieved when it ends. The six boys disappear in a scrum upstairs, but to my surprise, Bella and Taylor opt to stay with the adults and join us for coffee. We withdraw back into the Palm Court bar and settle in a group of chairs with a view of the sea. The sky is inky, studded with stars, and a full moon hangs heavy in its black velvet shawl. At Celia’s behest, the waiter leaves the coffee and cups on a side table, and the two girls help to pass them around.

  ‘Shall we order another bottle of Krug?’ Celia says, squeezing Brian’s hand. ‘I know it’s not done to mix coffee and champagne, but it’s our anniversary.’

  ‘Why not?’ Brian says amiably.