by Leah Mercer
ALSO BY LEAH MERCER
Who We Were Before
The Man I Thought You Were
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Leah Mercer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503959804
ISBN-10: 1503959805
Cover design by whittakerbookdesign.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The first thing Charlotte McKay hears is the distant sound of a child crying.
She groans as the wails break through the thick layer of fog shrouding her brain. She wishes the noise would stop . . . wishes she could sink back into silence. The cries grow louder and she strains against them, trying to escape, but something holds her tightly in place.
‘Are you all right in there?’
A loud banging replaces the child’s screams, and Charlotte forces her eyes open. Nausea churns inside as the pain in her head swells. She puts a hand to her forehead, her eyes widening when she discovers blood coating her fingers. What the hell? She blinks and scans her surroundings, trying to piece things together.
A steering wheel. An airbag, limp and lifeless. A seatbelt, gleaming like a snake in the sharp sunshine, biting her skin as she shifts in the seat.
She’s in a car. She’s in a car in the driver’s seat, and there must have been an accident. Please God, may it not have been her fault. What is she doing driving, anyway?
‘Hey! Are you okay?’
Before she can even try to respond, the car door swings open. Gentle hands unlatch the seatbelt, pull her from the car and strap her on to a hard board. Voices hammer into her head, asking for her name, where she lives, where it hurts, if she can move her legs. But everything is blurry and unclear, and the questions wash over her before draining away. She can barely understand the words, let alone answer.
The brilliant blue sky above her gives way to the scratched metallic roof of an ambulance. The doors slam shut, and a blissful silence fills the small space. No demands for information, no shouting . . . no crying. Charlotte winces, remembering the howling child. Did she hit another car – another car with a baby inside? She tries to remember what happened, but a hot wave of pain sears her brain, blunting any memory.
Tears fill her eyes, one spilling on to her cheek. She wants David. She wants David to hold her hand and tell her that everything will be okay; to touch her head and ease the pain. He’s always been there for her, keeping everything ticking over when she works long hours – or disappears for weeks – trying to close million-pound deals for work. She may wear the trousers in their marriage, but he is the solid, grounded one keeping her tethered to reality.
Memories of their recent trip to Rome filter into her head, and she grasps on to the sun-dappled images, clutching them close like a comfort blanket. The lemon ice cream they loved so much that they had three cones a day. The pizza they scoffed, the opera she dragged him to where they sat so close to the stage they got sprayed with spit each time the soprano sang, the buzz of the square outside their hotel at night . . . and the sex. Oh, God, the sex. There must have been something in that ice cream, because after almost five years together, making love with her husband was better than ever.
The ambulance lurches around a corner then comes to a stop. The doors open, and Charlotte screws her eyes shut against the light and noise. The stretcher rattles beneath her, its wheels squeaking as it carries her down a corridor. Finally it stops, and she hears the scrape of rings on metal as a curtain is pulled around her.
‘Hello.’ A voice fills the space and Charlotte opens her eyes, gasping at the pain in her head. A woman with large brown eyes and curly dark hair stands over her, gazing down with the detached, brisk expression of what could only be a busy A&E consultant . . . not that Charlotte has any first-hand experience. She can’t remember the last time she was in A&E – or even a hospital, for that matter. David always jokes that her body wouldn’t dare defy her. So far, it hasn’t. She wouldn’t let it.
‘I’m Dr Bhatt. Can you tell me your name? What’s your date of birth?’
‘Charlotte.’ Her voice is creaky, like she hasn’t spoken in years. ‘My name is Charlotte McKay.’ Her head pounds with every syllable, and for a second, she’s sure she’s going to be sick.
‘Okay, Charlotte. Great.’ Charlotte flinches as the doctor shines a light into her eyes. ‘Sorry to strap you on to such an uncomfortable board, but we had to make sure your neck and back are all right. You were unresponsive at the scene, so we’re going to do a CT scan of your head, okay? Just to check that the knock to your brain didn’t cause any swelling or other injuries.’
‘Okay.’ Charlotte doesn’t care what they do to her right now. She can barely even understand what the doctor is saying through the throbbing of her brain. She hasn’t had a headache this bad since uni, when she and her best friend Lily consumed a massive bowl of vodka jelly in one sitting. ‘Please can you call my David? My husband, I mean. David McKay.’ His number is buried so deeply in her head that the numbers emerge from her mouth automatically.
‘We’ll get in touch with him straight away,’ Dr Bhatt says. ‘And I’m sure you’re worried, so I wanted to let you know that your daughter is fine. We’ll give her a good check-over just to be on the safe side, but she seems perfectly all right. She certainly has a good set of lungs on her.’ She grins, patting Charlotte’s arm.
Charlotte blinks, trying to process the doctor’s words. Daughter?
‘My name is Charlotte,’ she forces
out. It’s agony to talk, but she has to clear this up now. Whoever that child belongs to, it needs its mum. ‘Charlotte McKay. And I don’t—’ Her stomach clenches and bile rises in her throat before she can explain that the child isn’t hers.
‘Call my husband,’ she manages to say. He’ll make everything clear. He’ll tell the doctor that they don’t have children.
Dr Bhatt nods. And the last thing Charlotte hears as she’s wheeled up to be scanned is that child still crying, calling frantically for her mummy.
Poor thing, Charlotte thinks as the howling thankfully recedes into the distance. Wherever – whoever – the mother is, Charlotte hopes she’s all right, because her child desperately needs her.
Then she closes her eyes as the stretcher carries her away.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Charlotte. Charlotte. God, are you okay?’
Charlotte opens her eyes, relief flooding into her at the sound of David’s voice. Finally her husband is here. She’d felt so alone as she’d waited to be scanned, staring at the ceiling with her head hammering, cold spreading up her bare arms until every inch of her was shivering.
David takes her hand, his warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. She can tell by his voice that he’s shaken but trying to stay calm, and tears fill her eyes again.
‘David.’ Her lips are dry and cracked, but just saying his name makes her anxious thoughts quieten. He’s always had that calming effect, slowing the frantic spinning that winds her so tightly she feels like she might break. David’s the one person she doesn’t have to prove anything to – someone who loves her as she is, workaholic tendencies and all. He might tell her to slow down, but he’s never tried to change that . . . or her.
She grips his hand now, shifting her gaze towards him and smiling. Christ, he looks awful, as if his worry has aged him. Skin sags under his eyes, the furrow in his brow is even deeper than usual, and his normally neat hair is messy and unkempt. Charlotte makes a mental note to drag him to the ridiculously expensive barber just down their street this weekend. You could buy a small country for the price of a shave and trim there, but David is definitely worth it.
‘The doctors said you were unresponsive when the paramedics first got to you. They had to drag you from the car, they said.’ David runs a hand through his hair, an agonised expression on his face. ‘Char, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just, well . . . I felt like it was my fault. And I didn’t know you wanted— I hadn’t realised—’
‘It’s fine,’ she interrupts, unable to bear the tension in his voice. She hasn’t seen him look so worried since his mother rang to say she was having a heart attack, only to find out it was heartburn from her lunchtime cocktails. ‘I’m fine.’
She has no idea why he’s apologising, but it can’t be anything too serious. When it comes to the big things in life, they’ve always been perfectly in tune. She squeezes his hand and the side of his wedding ring bites into her fingers, just as it has since he first slid it on five years earlier in a huge ceremony in the Orangery at Kensington Gardens. Charlotte had always said that when she tied the knot, she was going to go all out. And although it had practically wiped out her savings, she’d done just that.
Okay, so the ten-piece band, the caricature artist and the cocktail bar in an old Routemaster bus might have been a bit excessive, not to mention the hot-air balloon Lily had convinced her to hire. David had been as delighted with it all as she’d anticipated, though, and everyone had had an amazing time. If you didn’t make a big fuss of the man you loved on your wedding day, when would you? Anyway, it wasn’t like she and David needed to spend the money elsewhere. Thanks to their generous salaries, they already owned a one-bedroom flat in an idyllic location off the King’s Road in Chelsea. Sure, it was tiny, with no room for even a dining table, but it was enough for the two of them. Someday they might need to go bigger, but for now – and for the foreseeable future – it was perfect. Besides, she’d rather spend any extra cash on romantic holidays than on boring property.
‘I have a killer headache, but apart from that I’ll be fine.’ She tries to turn towards him, but the neck brace holds her firmly in place. ‘Or at least I will be when I can get back home.’ She draws in a shuddery breath and David smiles, but his face is still pinched and white.
‘Try to relax,’ David says, even though he looks like he’s doing anything but. Something about him seems . . . off, although Charlotte can’t quite put her finger on it. He’s had a shock, too, she reminds herself. It’s not every day your wife is in a car accident.
‘I know you’re worried,’ he continues, ‘but Anabelle is with my mum now, and she’s perfectly fine.’
He pushes a lock of hair back from her forehead, and Charlotte winces as strands trapped in dried blood pull at her skin. Who the hell is Anabelle? And why would Charlotte worry about David’s mum? She tries to piece together her husband’s words, but thinking hurts like hell.
‘Anyway, we should have the results from your scan soon,’ David says. ‘If everything is all right, the doctor says you’ll be able to go home.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re lucky the driver who hit you wasn’t going any faster. The police said he missed a red light and ploughed straight into your side of the car. They reckon the side airbag must have pushed you up against the window, and that’s how you hit your head. When I think about how things could have gone . . .’ David’s shoulders hunch, and he rolls his neck in a gesture so familiar it’s comforting.
So that’s what happened. Charlotte tries to tease the accident from her brain, but everything is fuzzy and indistinct. His mention of another driver reminds her of the crying child, but before she can ask if the little girl found her mother, David’s mobile rings.
He fishes it out of his pocket. ‘It’s Mum,’ he says, glancing at the screen. ‘Better get this.’
Her mother-in-law, of course. Who else would David talk to when his wife is lying on a gurney in A&E? Charlotte rolls her eyes, wincing at the pain – just moving her eyeballs feels like an ice pick hacking her skull. She can’t count the number of times she’s told David to let his mother Miriam’s calls go to voicemail, but David reacts as if she’s suggested gagging her . . . wishful thinking. The only time he doesn’t answer his mother’s missives is when he and Charlotte are making love, an excellent incentive to shag as much as they can – not that they need an incentive. She closes her eyes as David updates his mother on Charlotte’s condition, his voice fading away as the pounding in her head takes over.
‘Anabelle wants to talk to us,’ he whispers, reaching out to touch Charlotte’s arm. Her eyes fly open and she blinks at the name, trying once again to place it. Anabelle. Anabelle. It doesn’t seem familiar, but then she was never great at names. Still, the way David’s looking at her, it’s clear that whoever this person is, she’s someone important.
Has Miriam finally taken that lesbian lover Charlotte always jokes with David about? Charlotte’s lips twitch, despite her aching head. Miriam hasn’t been with a man since David’s father left her ages ago, and Charlotte often teases him that maybe she’ll switch sides in her advancing years.
No, surely she would remember that. Christ, it would be the best thing to happen all year! At the very least, it might get Miriam off her back about having kids. If she needs to explain yet again why she’s not ready, she’s going to lose it. Thank God David hasn’t jumped on that bandwagon . . . yet, anyway.
‘Okay, Anabelle,’ David says in a louder voice, flicking the phone on to ‘Speaker’. ‘Mummy can hear you now.’
‘Mummy!’ A child’s voice bursts through the handset. ‘Why are you still in hospital? When will you be home?’
Mummy? What the—? Charlotte’s eyes lock on to David’s face, as if his familiar features will help her make sense of what’s happening. Has her husband gone mad? Or has she fallen through to a parallel universe? Because in this life, she and David haven’t even started trying for children, despite the longing in her husband’s e
yes every time he spots something baby-related. He’s the only man she’s ever known to get broody over nappy adverts on the telly, and sometimes the desire on his face is so much she needs to turn away.
Like most couples, they’d mused about what their child might look like, but the notion of offspring was always more theoretical than real . . . a pleasant way to spin dreams together after making love. David would wax lyrical about the benefits of stay-at-home dads, saying he’d be only too happy to give up his insurance job to raise their child. Charlotte would laugh, pushing aside the pang of guilt at the thought that he might be waiting a very long time. David would never pressure her, but she knew he was keen to have a family of his own one day – anxious to be the father his own dad had never been to him. And maybe, one day, she’d be ready. Maybe.
Just not now.
‘David,’ she says slowly, trying to get her brain in gear enough to form a question – enough to ask if he’s the one who bumped his head. But her husband’s nodding at her encouragingly, as if it’s normal that a phantom child should address her as its mother – as if she should recognise this voice. An incredulous laugh bubbles up inside her at the ridiculousness of it all.
David’s still waving the phone at her, deep creases lodged even more firmly in his forehead. ‘Anabelle, Mummy’s not feeling well just now,’ he says, once it becomes obvious she can’t talk. ‘She sends her love and a big, big cuddle. Now—’
‘Sir, you shouldn’t be using your mobile in here.’ A nurse with a steel-grey bob pokes her head into the room, her face wreathed in disapproval.
David jumps. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and despite her bewilderment, Charlotte can’t help smiling at his guilty flush, as if he’s been caught cheating on a school spelling test. He’s always been one to follow the rules, whereas she’s more likely to push them – or break them, if it suits her. ‘I’ll just take this outside,’ he says. ‘Back in a sec.’
He scuttles from the room. Charlotte watches him go, confusion muddling her brain even more. Yes, she had a knock on the head. A big one, if the pain is anything to go by. But . . . a daughter?
