Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  When Sam eventually divorced, it wasn’t Amanda he turned to. Instead, he broke it off with her and within two years married the much younger Lily. Amanda never got over it.

  And then when Molly caught her using cocaine at work, Amanda saw it as the end. The loss of not just her job, but everything.

  I’d not understood the link with Gemma until the inquest. Seems when Amanda found out about Gemma’s pregnancy – Sam the father – she simply became fixated. And deluded. Her last chance for purpose. Happiness. She came up with this fantasy where Amanda would get her final chance to be a mother and Gemma could carry on with her life.

  The coroner was told Amanda paid one of her dealers to deliver the dolls. To confuse the inquiry; to frighten the Hartleys and Matthew’s family too. She got the gun from the same dealer. It matched the bullet used on Gemma. Sam too.

  Amanda’s diary claimed she never meant to kill Gemma; she actually planned to kill herself at that first graduation. A huge and bloody gesture in front of everyone from the stone balcony above the audience, supposedly to bring shame on the university for getting rid of her so cruelly. She wanted it public. A letter in her pocket pointing everyone to her diaries. My truth.

  But when she saw Gemma, so lovely and so young in her robe down below – her whole life ahead of her – carrying the baby Amanda was now too old to have, she was in the moment overwhelmed with jealousy and rage. And made a different choice.

  And Sam? Amanda’s diary said she was going to Sam to press him to use his rights as the father. To persuade Gemma when she recovered to let Amanda have the baby after all.

  What was so difficult is that Amanda seemed to genuinely see all this as reasonable. Possible.

  The coroner nailed it in his summing up. ‘Clearly we all know that she would never have been allowed to parent that child. This was the sad and deluded thinking of someone who’d lost all sense of the real world. We cannot know how that confrontation with Sam Blake went. Only how it so tragically ended.’

  The verdict, as expected – suicide. And that was it. Over. Done. Everyone stood up as the coroner left the room but I didn’t. Couldn’t. I remember sitting there and feeling completely numb; that it just wasn’t enough. No full stop.

  I started muttering and Matthew had to take me into the corridor to find a glass of water, to calm me down.

  But where’s the justice, Matthew? Where’s the justice for Gemma?

  I promise that I do try not to dwell. The problem is it’s a bit like a haunting and sometimes when the scenes all swirl in my head – just like the light through those windows in this church – I spiral; find myself muttering out loud all over again. Like some crazy woman.

  ‘It’s OK, Rachel. It’s really over now.’ Matthew is leaning in and I open my eyes.

  ‘Sorry. Was I muttering?’ I blush. Don’t want to be this new Rachel.

  ‘Not muttering but miles away.’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ He’s whispering. ‘Look. It’s very hard to cross paths with someone like Amanda. Someone that broken. The trick is to stop trying to make sense of it, Rachel. You have to try to let it go.’

  ‘You sound like my counsellor.’

  He laughs. I smile. Matthew was the one to recommend therapy after it worked so well for his daughter.

  I take in his expression. I glance to Amelie who is on tiptoe, lighting her candle, and then back to this good man. This good father. This man who could so easily have been lost too.

  ‘Thank you, Matthew.’ The words sound so inadequate but he is smiling and so I finally let go of his arm, start my breathing exercises again. And make my excuses.

  I hurry away to the ladies to find Gemma babbling to Sophie as she hurls the soiled nappy into the lidded, stainless-steel bin. ‘Now isn’t that better, young lady? You comfy now? Ready for your big entrance?’

  Sophie tries to grab her mother’s necklace as Gemma lifts her into her arms from the changing station.

  ‘Give her to me while you wash your hands.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I take Sophie and move over to a chair in the corner so that I can pop her dress back on, juggling her arms through the layers of silk and leaning back as she tries to grab my glasses. ‘There. Don’t you look pretty?’

  I stand and look at Gemma through the mirror. My brave and beautiful girl. She dries her hands and as she turns to me, I lean forward to plant a kiss on her forehead.

  For a moment she freezes. Frowning. She looks back at me through the mirror and then turns to me directly, puzzled, as if trying to figure something out.

  ‘Do that again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kiss me on the forehead.’

  I’m thrown but happily plant a second.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What?’

  She looks aside and then directly at me once more. ‘That’s why I came back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  And now she’s smiling, more animated, as if she’s just worked out the punchline to a joke. ‘You know I don’t remember much from the coma. Hardly anything actually, but I do remember something now. I remember feeling you do that.’ Speaking more quickly now.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kissing me on the forehead.’

  ‘You really felt that? In the coma?’

  ‘I did. I just remembered that I really did. And one day—’ She lets out a huff, still smiling. ‘I decided to swim back to you.’

  ‘Swim?’ She’s completely lost me now.

  ‘Oh, never mind. It’s complicated, but – that kiss. It’s definitely why I came back. Why I woke up.’

  I’m utterly confused but also incredibly happy to see her like this.

  To imagine that she did hear me, or at least sense me near her some of the time. All those long days in that cubicle. This mother who messed up; who got it so very wrong but who has always loved her with every ounce of my being. And then I watch Gemma pass the kiss to her own daughter’s forehead.

  ‘Can I really do this, Mum?’ She’s now holding Sophie in her arms, gazing at her child, her expression and her tone changing. More intense.

  She doesn’t mean today. She means all of it. Gemma’s signed up for teacher training – school-based so I can help with Sophie. It will be tough. We all know that. But when I think of what she’s achieved already . . .

  ‘Of course you can.’ We’ve had the talk. About motherhood. All the mistakes I made. ‘Just love her,’ I add. ‘No secrets. And you’ll be just fine.’

  Gemma smiles again. She takes a deep breath and turns finally to check her own reflection.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s not too pink?’ She is tilting her head and pulling at the neckline of her dress as Sophie tries again for the pendant. It’s the dress we chose together for her graduation – in that other life. That parallel universe.

  I take in the whole picture properly through the mirror. Gemma, my Gemma – so brave and beautiful with her blade and her baby and who to me, I swear, has never looked so lovely. This feeling more powerful than breathing – in this moment pounding all the dark scenes into dust.

  ‘No.’ I clear my throat. ‘It’s definitely not too pink.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It feels strange to admit it here, but this was a book I initially didn’t want to write.

  The opening scene in the cathedral came to me a few months after my elder son’s glorious and very happy graduation. I was quite shaken – also cross with my brain for coming up with the dark images so soon after the contrast of our happy, happy family day.

  I remember telling my husband – well, I’m definitely not going to write that up.

  But my process has always been a strange one. My stories often feel as if they come through me rather than from me. Yes, yes, I know how ridiculous (and heaven forbid – pretentious) that sounds. I do promise that I realise deep down it’s all me but maybe it’s because I was a reporter for decades. Maybe my brain likes to wor
k that way – to see these fictional stories and characters as real in the same way my news stories were real so that I can still feel in this new landscape (of make-believe) that I’m trying to do justice to real experiences. And real emotions.

  Whatever the case, this story and this dark idea just wouldn’t go away, however much I resisted it. In the end it felt as if Gemma and her family stubbornly camped out in my writing room, arms crossed and expressions determined – whispering more and more of the story until I gave in. It was only at the point I realised this was a mother-daughter story, that it was actually a thriller with love at its core, that I felt more comfortable with it.

  I can only hope that you like how the story turned out all these years after the opening scene flashed into my brain. Thank you so much for reading Her Perfect Family. If you’ve enjoyed the novel, I’d hugely appreciate a review on Amazon. They really do help other readers to discover my books.

  I also love to hear from readers so feel free to get in touch. You can find my website at www.teresadriscoll.com and also say hello on Twitter @TeresaDriscoll or via my Facebook author page, www.facebook.com/teresadriscollauthor, and at Instagram too @tkdriscoll_author.

  Warm wishes to you all,

  Teresa

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is my fifth thriller – and my seventh published novel – and I learn that nothing changes. Trust me, it takes a village to make a book.

  So huge thanks go to all those who have so generously played a part in helping to shape this story and send it out into the world – to my fabulous publisher Thomas & Mercer, my patient editors Jack Butler and Jane Snelgrove and my wonderful agent Madeleine Milburn and her team.

  I also need to thank, as always, my gorgeous family who are so supportive, especially (with wine and chocolate!) when I hit the inevitable wobble.

  And finally my heartfelt thanks go to you, my lovely readers. My stories are now translated into twenty languages and your wonderful messages from across the globe really do mean the world.

  I pinch myself daily. To be doing this job – my dream since primary school – is such a privilege.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Claire Tregaskis

  For more than twenty-five years as a journalist – including fifteen years as a BBC TV news presenter – Teresa Driscoll followed stories into the shadows of life. Covering crime for so long, she watched and was deeply moved by all the ripples each case caused, and the haunting impact on the families, friends and witnesses involved. It is those ripples that she explores in her darker fiction.

  Teresa lives in beautiful Devon with her family. She writes women’s fiction as well as thrillers, and her novels have been published in twenty languages. You can find out more about her books on her website (www.teresadriscoll.com) or by following her on Twitter (@TeresaDriscoll) or Facebook (www.facebook.com/teresadriscollauthor) or Instagram (@tkdriscoll_author).