Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ALSO BY TERESA DRISCOLL

  Recipes for Melissa

  Last Kiss Goodnight

  I Am Watching You

  The Friend

  The Promise

  I Will Make You Pay

  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 © 2021 by Teresa Driscoll

  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 Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542028752

  ISBN-10: 1542028752

  Cover design by The Brewster Project

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Navy . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  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

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  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

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Pink

  The daughter looks at her outfit. And suddenly, at this eleventh hour, she realises the colour is all wrong.

  A shaft of sunlight has broken through the crack in the curtains. On its hanger on the wardrobe door last night, the dress looked fine. This morning, in this new and unforgiving beam of light, the pink is all at once . . . too pink.

  In the shop mirror a month back it had seemed softer somehow. Her mother loved it immediately – there were tears. Hugs. The daughter sighs at the memory but is wondering now if there was some trick; if the shop mirror was smoked and they had not realised just how bright the dress would look in daylight. In sunlight. In today’s light.

  She sits up to see her reflection in the mirror across the room. She pinches her cheeks and tries to imagine how the addition of make-up might help. But no. There is no lipstick in the world that can fix this.

  She gets out of bed and moves to her wardrobe, the bubble of panic in her stomach growing as she holds the dress on its hanger against her frame. She does not want to disappoint her mother; they had such a very lovely day choosing this dress. But it looks so wrong now that she fears today’s photograph will haunt her forever.

  She imagines the picture, framed on the piano at home – the dress forever too pink.

  And now her phone buzzes on the dressing table. A notification of yet another direct message. He is not who he says he is . . .

  She feels the familiar shiver of unease. She badly needs to make this stop but simply has no time today. She throws the phone on to the bed and looks back at her reflection. It’s decided. Sorry Mummy.

  She will not wear the pink. She will wear the lemon dress instead . . .

  Navy

  The mother looks at her outfit. And suddenly, at this eleventh hour, she worries about her daughter.

  She stares at the dress and jacket hanging against the shiny white of the hotel’s wardrobe door and thinks of her beautiful girl, getting ready all alone at her flat.

  She takes in the sensible navy of her ensemble. Somehow in the cold light of this bright and breezy Wednesday, it looks too conservative. Too ‘mother of the bride’? She turns away; doesn’t care.

  Today is Gemma’s day. She imagines standing alongside her beautiful girl in that gorgeous pink dress and feels the punch of pride that has swollen her heart and yes, her head too, ever since the results came in.

  A first. Did I remember to tell you? My daughter Gemma: she has . . . a first.

  She did not go to university herself and has never even been to a graduation ceremony. She turns to her husband who still sleeps, envying his calm. He’s from a world where everyone goes to university and doesn’t understand her nerves.

  She thinks of the cathedral and the choir and her special girl in that very special pink dress.

  She imagines it will be the best day of her life.

  This mother who cannot know in this moment that it is to be the very worst.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE MOTHER

  When the trumpets start up, the volume is a shock. A child near the back of the cathedral starts to laugh and we turn our heads, stifling our own smiles.

  It is indeed surreal, all this pomp and this pageantry. And yes – loud. It is very loud.

  I turn back to the front, my ears adjusting, as the university hierarchy file in to take up their seats in the choir stalls. They’re all in different colours. Rich purple and yellow and red. Different headgear too. Some have velvet caps with gold tassels. Some have fur on their gowns. Others not.

  I imagine those in the know understand all these sartorial signals of intellectual pecking order. Which colour for which university each professor attended. I have no idea. I’m simply wondering how uncomfortable all those hats must be.

  I smooth the navy dress across my knee and watch as the trumpeters finish at last and we hear the audience’s collective clearing of throats and blowing of noses as the chancellor steps up to the microphone. I feel myself smile again and for a moment am enchanted and proud and exhilarated by the warmth of the welcome.

  I listen. I beam. I listen some more. And then – much too quickly, I’m embarrassed to become rather bored. The chancellor, a tall woman with enormous red glasses, goes on much too long and soon I am thinking – yes, yes, we know all this. Do please get on with it. I steal a glance at the programme on my lap. Gemma is page four and I am wondering – how long per page?

  There is more coughing and shuffling of chairs. A child crying. The scraping of wood on stone floor as a parent apparently decides to take the weeping child out. I turn to watch t
hem near the back of the cathedral. The child, on his father’s hip, looks no more than eighteen months and I wonder if it is a second marriage. Or just a big age gap? And how on earth do divorced people manage occasions like this? We were only offered two tickets.

  I turn back to the front. Maidstead is the smallest cathedral not just in the south-west but in the country – only just scraping its official status. I like that you can see front to back from my vantage point. For some reason we are in the VIP seats directly in front of the choir stall. No idea how we ended up here but it’s a happy mistake. A great view. There are narrow corridors with stone arches beyond the choir stalls and I can see glimpses of university staff with clipboards.

  For a moment I think I recognise someone in the distance – Helen’s sister. Mandy. Or is it Molly. For the life of me I can’t remember but it suddenly occurs to me that maybe she organised our seats? Mandy (or Molly?) is the sister of one of my book-group friends, Helen. When Gemma expressed an interest in this uni, Helen very kindly passed on some tips. Her sister’s in the comms department. Gave us some general pointers on the most popular accommodation for freshers – that sort of thing. Nice woman. We’ve met her very briefly at a couple of uni events – on nodding terms, no more. Would she have done this for us? I doubt it . . .

  But now I am frowning. Reconsidering. I have been going on and on about the ceremony at book club, worrying about the seating, so maybe Helen did put in a word. It’s the sort of thing she’d do. I glance at my bag, thinking of my phone. I should message Helen later. Yes. If her sister wangled these seats on the quiet, we should at least thank her . . .

  And now the chancellor is telling us that our sons and daughters, lined up in these anterooms off the rear corridors, are presently graduands – the technical term until they miraculously transform into bona-fide graduates once their certificates are in their happy hands.

  I turn to Ed, who sits alongside me, his shoulders still tight – no longer quite the ball of fury he was when we first took our seats, but he’s still cross with me. I touch his arm and whisper again that I’m sorry about the bad atmosphere in the car.

  He finds a small smile but as payback will not look at me. But I can tell, even from his profile, he’s softening; that I am almost forgiven. Good.

  It wasn’t my fault – the row. Well, not row; we don’t really have rows. I’m lucky that way. It was just that I wanted to leave the hotel nice and early as we were supposed to meet Gemma at the ‘dressing tents’ to see her in her gown and do some photographs ahead of the cathedral. But Ed, who’s a great deal more relaxed than me about timings, wanted a full English. Stop catastrophising Rachel.

  And then a lorry with gas canisters decided to burst a tyre – and my bubble – right in front of us on a major roundabout on the way into the city centre. Of course, I blamed Ed. I didn’t say anything out loud – I just let out this huff. Looked away. But the problem with Ed is sometimes he just won’t leave things . . .

  Spit it out, Rachel. You really saying this is my fault? This lorry?

  I’m fine.

  You’re not fine. You can’t even look at me.

  Leave it, Ed.

  I didn’t rise to it. The thing is I absolutely can’t stand arguments and there’s no way we need all that. Not today. I just messaged Gemma – devastated to miss the dressing tent. She said no worries, then texted something rather odd: Don’t be upset when you see me, Mum. Promise?

  And now she’s had to turn off her phone and I’m in limbo. Puzzled. How could I be upset with her – today of all days?

  Suddenly there’s applause and I’m pulled back into the moment to see that the chancellor is at last wrapping up. I clap. Ed claps. Someone else, an alumni, steps forward to take up their position to our far left to hand over the certificates. Someone off the telly but not A-list famous. I will have to look them up in the programme. Gemma did tell me.

  And now – hurrah – the first glimpse of the graduands – appearing in a line through a stone arch off to the right, behind the choir stalls. My goodness – what a logistical feat this is. Gemma told me the briefing was a right palaver.

  I clap and smile at the first batch as if I know them. There are hoots and whistles from some of the parents and I love that this is more relaxed than I expected. I can feel tears pricking my eyes. It’s all so huge. And then? Name after name after name and my palms are sore already. I realise that I cannot possibly keep up this level of enthusiasm. I simply can’t love all these strangers quite this much. I glance down. Good Lord. We are still on page . . . one.

  I reduce the quality of my clapping and distract myself by taking in the very different shoes that all the girls have chosen. Some spectacularly high. Gemma has this phobia about tripping in public and has chosen wedges. I need to have something solid to walk on, Mum. I suggested kitten heels, but she was not having that. Reckoned it would make her legs look stumpy in the photographs.

  I think back again to that day we chose her dress. A gorgeous sunny day. Lunch at the café by the river. I feel a sigh leave my body as I picture her in the mirror. That gorgeous shade of pink.

  I feel tears coming once again, imagining the moment her name is called. I turn to Ed and he winks. Good. I am properly forgiven. I stretch out my hand and he squeezes it.

  It takes fifteen minutes per page and finally we are on to the fourth.

  I take in a deep breath, counting the names. One more batch of six. Then her group.

  I am this ridiculous ball of emotion. Suddenly there are all these scenes swirling around my brain. The day they put her in my arms. That picture on the fridge of her in a paddling pool with Ed spraying cold water on to her. I think of the day she got the offer to come here. The scream of delight from her room when she logged on to get the ‘yes’ even before we picked up her A-level results.

  And now a pause. Her batch next. I find that I am holding my breath. I trace the names with my finger. Walk, applause. Walk, applause. And then at last.

  Gemma Hartley . . .

  I see her appear at the back of the choir stall in her gown and her mortar board with her long dark hair loose over her shoulders. I take in the neutral shoes and the slightly tanned legs. And then there is this little punch of shock as she walks forward.

  Not the glimpse of gorgeous pink beneath the black of the gown as she moves. I feel myself frowning. I turn to Ed, but he hasn’t noticed.

  It’s the wrong dress. I don’t understand. The dress is pale lemon.

  Ed is calling out – ‘Hurrah! Well done Gemma’ – and everyone is applauding.

  I am clapping too and smiling now, trying to cover up the puzzlement.

  Gemma recognises her father’s voice and turns to spot us. She looks down at her dress and then up at me with this sort of worried look on her face.

  I just smile. I don’t understand . . . but I deliberately turn the smile up to a beam.

  Then she turns towards the guy holding out her certificate so that we are looking at her back as she reaches out her right hand to take her prize.

  There is this noise from behind the trumpeters. A sort of thud as if someone has dropped something heavy, like a large music book, at the back of the choir stall.

  It startles poor Gemma and the very thing she has feared all her life – at sports days and presentations and the like – happens right this moment. She stumbles.

  My hand is immediately up to my mouth. She is flat on the floor and everyone sort of leans forward.

  I am all at once mortified for her and also overwhelmed with love for her. I want to be beside her telling her that it doesn’t matter. That no one will care. Just get up and smile. No one will care. A part of me wants to run to her but I know it will make things worse; magnify her embarrassment.

  There’s a beat as we all wait for her to get up so that we can cheer her on; signal that it really doesn’t matter. But the beat is too long. I stand now, worrying that she may have fainted. Or banged her head?

  Two professors si
tting nearer have now moved also. All at once they are crouching beside her. Next there is shouting.

  ‘A doctor. We need a doctor.’

  I am aware only that I am suddenly pushing. Ed too. I push, push, push past the three people seated in my way and reach the aisle just as they say it . . .

  ‘She’s been shot.’

  Next come ugly, unimaginable words. A bubble of bile suddenly surrounding me.

  ‘An ambulance. We need an ambulance. She’s been shot . . .’

  And now slow motion. People screaming. Run. Run.

  There is a chaotic surge of bodies – parents and students and ushers too. A starburst of panic blocking my way as everyone rushes to the various doors.

  I have to shoulder people aside. No longer pushing – shoving. Get out of my way. Out of my way. It’s my daughter . . . I need to get to my daughter.

  When finally I near the huddle around Gemma, a woman is barking instructions. Give me some room. I’m a doctor and I need something to press against the wound. That shawl. Give me your shawl.

  Someone’s handing the doctor a green shawl as I crouch down to stroke my daughter’s hair.

  ‘Gemma. It’s Mummy. I’m right here, darling. Right here . . .’

  She’s head down, utterly still, and I try again to push the hair back so I can see her face as I take it in – the wrong dress.

  This dress covered in blood that is seeping into a large and terrifying pool on the stone floor beneath her.

  Not the pink dress – not even a lemon dress any more.

  Dark red.

  Everything blood red now.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  ‘Do you want a flake, sweetheart?’ Matthew Hill holds out a five-pound note to the ice-cream seller as his daughter Amelie frowns. It’s a simple enough question but Matthew’s learned that nothing in life is simple with a child of Amelie’s disposition. She tilts her head as if world peace is on the line.

  ‘Quick, quick, lovely. Chocolate flake – yes? There are lots of people waiting.’ The ice-cream van’s on the high street and Matthew is shocked by the queue behind him and the crowds in general. He’d quite forgotten it’s graduation season. Would never have come into the centre of Maidstead if he’d remembered.