‘Poor Charlotte, too,’ Jess says, surprising me. ‘It’s horrific keeping something like that inside you. Six days was enough for me. We’ve told the police we won’t support a prosecution if it’s brought: I’ve withdrawn my statement. Let’s face it: I neglected the children too, and it’s the last thing Frankie needs.’
We’re nearing the end of the older children’s running track. Frankie has calmed down now that Andrew’s left and is persuaded to rejoin his classmates for his relay. Jess slows her pace, apparently reluctant to mingle with other parents, or for them to overhear.
‘Ed told me what happened with Charlotte,’ she says, after a while.
‘When they were students?’
‘More recently.’ Her voice dips. ‘He felt she was becoming “too emotionally invested”: as if they were having a platonic affair. Then she intimated it could be physical, too. Nothing happened but he knew he didn’t want that, and realised how much he loved me. So he told her to back off, and that they couldn’t continue being close friends.’
‘When did he tell her this?’ Mel asks.
‘At the summer fair. I imagine he sounded brutal.’
I remember Charlotte’s red raw expression. No wonder she looked so bleak.
‘Perhaps a fresh break is what they need. New school; new start . . . I hope she finds some happiness,’ I say, somewhat lamely. I find it bizarre that Charlotte panicked; think it completely irresponsible that she left Betsey; have been furious that she manipulated Frankie – forcing him to carry the blame for five months – and intending him to do so indefinitely. (And I know from my guilt over Mattie’s accident how pernicious, how corrosive this can be.) I know Ed’s felt furious too – not least about Charlotte encouraging him to suspect that Jess had harmed Betsey. And yet this anger isn’t helpful: certainly won’t help Jess and her family. It was an accident, I keep reminding myself – and accidents make people act irrationally.
‘On your marks . . .’ A loudspeaker interrupts us, and we focus on something less intense: the year five girls’ relay. Rosa’s primed: weight on her front foot, both arms raised.
The starting gun fires and they’re off: a flurry of small, light bodies streaking down the track.
‘Go, Rosa!’ I scream.
‘Look at them go!’ Mel screeches, as Rosa hands over the baton, then: ‘Go, Mollie! Go, Moll-ie!’ and Jess and I join in, cheering in a manner that’s far too competitive for a school sports day but that lifts my spirits high.
The girls come first and collapse in each other’s arms as if they’ve won gold at the Olympics.
‘Come here,’ Mel laughs, and pulls the two of us into a tight hug as we watch.
In the buggy, Betsey starts kicking her legs.
‘Oh – do you want a cuddle, too?’ Jess asks – and she lifts the toddler out and into her arms.
Betsey beams. The entranced smile of a child who is adored and who senses she is at the heart of this celebration. She traces our faces with soft fingers before they land in her mother’s hair. A smile splits her face and her laughter rises, fat and iridescent as soap bubbles. It’s contagious, and soon we are all laughing for no real reason at all.
Or maybe there is. The sun streams down, our children race around, and for a moment I feel nothing but pin-sharp happiness. This is it, I realise. This. Is. It. And then I see my mother, alone with a screaming baby, and I wish she had had someone to connect with; to confide in about the lows of motherhood that weighed her down so that she never felt this light-hearted, this joyful, with Clare.
‘You OK?’ Jess catches my eye, above Betsey’s head. These days she’s particularly in tune with others’ vulnerabilities.
And I want to remind us all to cherish this. These highs of motherhood that sustain us; that buoy us up when we’re exhausted, or anxious, or it all feels like a bit of a struggle; these perfect, necessary moments.
But of course, none of this needs saying.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Absolutely fine.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Little Disasters was written as I waited for Anatomy of a Scandal to be published, and in the aftermath of this happening. I am indescribably grateful to Jo Dickinson, of Simon & Schuster UK, for her care, insight and patience in nurturing it, and me.
The entire S&S team has been fabulous: Jess Barratt, Hayley McMullan, Sara-Jade Virtue, Laura Hough, Dom Brendon, Joe Roche, Gill Richardson, Louise Davies, Clare Hey and Alice Rodgers. Saxon Bullock was a forensic copy editor and Tamsin Shelton as thoughtful a proof reader as she was for Anatomy of a Scandal. In the US, huge thanks are due to my editor Emily Bestler, of Emily Bestler Books, Lara Jones and Ariele Fredman.
As ever, I am indebted to my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who always pushes me to dig deeper, and to Maddalena Cavaciuti. One of the immense joys of being published has been seeing my novels enjoyed in foreign countries and I’m so grateful to the DHA rights team – Alice Howe, Emma Jamison, Margaux Vialleron, Lucy Talbot, Emma Schouten and Johanna Clarke – for ensuring Little Disasters will be read beyond the US and UK.
Unlike Michael Gove, I’m a huge fan of experts and this novel could not have been written without two in particular: Graham Bartlett, former chief superintendent and now police procedural advisor, and Keir Shiels, paediatrician at the Royal London hospital. Both of them showed immense patience in answering my often repetitive questions and, crucially, were quick to respond to emails. They also read certain sections, and corrected facts and terminology when I got things wrong. If the police scenes and the hospital sections ring true, it is largely thanks to them. Any mistakes are all mine.
Other doctors who helped immensely in fields ranging from paediatrics to obstetrics to psychiatry to gastroen-terology were: Dr Nancy Morris, Dr Geoff Debelle, Dr Georgina Bough, Dr Manish Patel, Dr Jo Cannon and Dr Roger Marwood. I am so grateful for each of those often lengthy phone conversations and follow up emails. Thank you, too, to Suzanne Biers and Dr Zoe Mead, doctor friends who helped with contacts, and to the press officers at the RCPCH (Royal College of Paediatrics and Child Health) and the RCOG (Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists).
I am grateful to Maria Bavetta, of the Maternal OCD charity, not least for putting me in touch with Maddelena Miele, consultant perinatal psychiatrist at St Mary’s hospital: an interview with her in the early stages confirmed that this was an issue I should be writing about.
Social workers have been harder to find and I’m grateful to my author friend Claire Fuller, for putting me in touch with Paul Shawcross; to Penny Sturt, who I met through Twitter; and to Josie Collier, who, to my daughter’s embarrassment, I interviewed after chatting to her on a train. Lucy Stone became a far smaller character than originally intended but it was important safeguarding procedure was accurate.
I drew on several non-fiction books while researching this, including: Dropping the Baby and Other Scary Thoughts, by Karen Kleiman and Amy Wenzel; Direct Red, by Gabriel Weston; Your Life in My Hands, by Rachel Clarke; This Is Going to Hurt, by Adam Kay; Mad Girl, by Bryony Gordon; and The Man Who Couldn’t Stop, by my former Guardian colleague David Adam. I highly recommend his memoir, and Gordon’s, for a greater understanding of OCD.
Writing can be a very isolating job. As ever, I’m indebted to the Prime Writers, who have put up with me whinging, and answered my questions – at one stage debating, at length, whether we’d change the nappy of another mother’s baby. Rachael Lucas, thank you for that phone conversation, too. Twitter saps time but the enthusiasm of author friends, booksellers and bloggers I’ve met through it has helped keep me going. Thank you, in particular, to Shots blogger Ayo Onatade, for answering a quick but crucial question.
Away from the screen, support has come, as ever, from Laura Tennant, my sister, and Bobby Hall, my mother. Laura is the first non-publishing person to read my novels and her points were as kind, perceptive and pertinent as ever. Huge thanks, and love, to you both.
Little Disasters was sparked by a conversation with my husband, a
hospital consultant who I met twenty years ago – six weeks after he became a junior doctor. Neither of us could do each other’s jobs and I remain amazed by some of the things he and his NHS colleagues put up with and, despite this, still achieve. My love, as ever, to him, and to our children who have taught me everything I know about motherhood.
A final note to the dads I chat to on the sidelines of football and rugby matches: I promise none of these characters are you.
Sarah Vaughan read English at Oxford University and went on to become a journalist. After training at the Press Association, she spent eleven years at the Guardian as a news reporter and political correspondent before leaving to freelance and write fiction. Anatomy of a Scandal, her third novel, and her first for Simon & Schuster, was an instant international bestseller, a Sunday Times top five bestseller, a number one kindle bestseller, and was longlisted for the Theakston Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. It has been translated into 22 languages and has been optioned for television. Little Disasters is her fourth novel.
She lives near Cambridge with her husband and two children.
More from the Author
Anatomy of a Scandal
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
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Copyright © Sarah Vaughan Limited, 2020
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6503-0
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6504-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-9509-9
Audio ISBN: 978-1-4711-6789-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath. Reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.
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