If You Only Knew
Page 31
She stared at me and her eyes started to soften. “He was my son. It was my job to make sure he didn’t do any harm. It was my job to protect you and the others. From him. From Terry. I didn’t know he had been threatening you for all these years.”
At least Terry was being charged for his involvement in the death of the other girls. After analysing the letters that had been sent to me over the years, the detectives had confirmed he was behind them. He had even got his mother to send some of the letters, although she still claimed that she didn’t know what they meant.
“I’m sorry.” Mrs Larkin’s broken voice interrupted my thoughts. Tears started springing in my eyes and I turned back before they could spill onto my cheeks, driving away although I could barely see.
A few days later I called Mrs Larkin to apologise. And somehow we started talking often, until we decided to meet for coffee. It became a frequent ritual. She’d talk about her son and I’d tell her about the job applications that I’d sent, the hours I’d spent making phone calls that would never be returned, the despair that I would never be able to work again. She was the one who held my hand as I cried when our house, which I had fought for so long to buy, was put on the market. Miles had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want to live there any longer. The future of our marriage depends on it, he’d said when he saw my resistance. In the end, I had no choice but to let go, give up on the house where my children learned to walk, uttered their first words, their first home. And most of all the house down the road from Maya. It’s too soon, I’d told Miles when we received a full-price offer less than a week after we put it on the market. Perhaps we priced it too low. We could re-list it at a higher price. But I was clutching at straws. Miles’ stern look was the reality check that I needed. That life was over. We signed the paperwork and within a month had moved to the rented flat.
The doorbell rings and I look at my reflection in the glass microwave door, tucking a tendril of red hair that escaped the confines of my bun back in place. “I’m a little early,” she says when I open the door. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I quickly respond, opening the door wide and summoning her in. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Sure.” She follows me, the clicking sound of our heels piercing through the silence. I busy myself filling the kettle and fetching cups while waiting for the water to boil, snatching glances at her. Her black knee-length dress hugs her lean body. Her legs are sheathed in opaque tights. The square-toe shoes look new. She puts her bag on the table and I catch a glimpse of her neatly trimmed nails, painted a pale pink. She no longer bites them, I think. Her hair is shorter than the last time I saw her, with a wispy fringe framing her face, making her green eyes pop out.
“How’ve you been Maya? It’s been a while.” My voice sounds a little shaky and I look away, afraid of being carried away by emotion.
“Good, busy. A levels are tough.” She pauses for a second. “What about you? Any job leads?”
“No, still looking.” I force a smile, my cheeks hurting from the effort. But I cannot show her how disappointed I am, how deflated I’m getting. For the first weeks after the trial I’d crammed my schedule, working hard to finish my community service. And then it was over and I was suddenly all alone at home for most of the day. Calls to former colleagues were not returned. Emails went unanswered. Regret emails started flowing in for every job I’d applied to. A year on and I still had no leads. Plans to purchase another house were put on hold and the small flat that was meant to be temporary accommodation started looking like a long-term solution.
The call had come on a day when I was feeling at my lowest. I had been turned down for a voluntary position at a women’s shelter, giving legal advice to residents. Although my licence was only suspended for six months, the fear that I might never be able to practice law again was becoming more and more real. When I looked at the name flashing on my screen I could barely believe it. My brain must be playing tricks. But when I answered it was her. Maya. She wanted to see me.
“We should probably go Mrs P,” she says now.
“Yes, yes,” I respond.
My mind goes back to a conversation we had when we first started meeting. “What should I call you?” she’d asked.
My heart had started beating faster and faster. “Whatever you want,” I’d said.
“I cannot call you ‘mum’.”
There was a tightening in my chest. “No, of course not,” I said quickly, looking away, not wanting her to see my disappointment.
“Does anyone else call you ‘Mrs P’?”
“No, just you.”
“Ok, then that’s what I’ll continue calling you. It will be our thing.”
We bundle in my car. “Don’t forget to put on your seatbelt,” I tell her, leaning over to make sure she’s safely buckled. She laughs and the sound fills the small space. And I cannot help but smile. My life is not perfect. There’s a lot I would like to change. Many improvements that could be made. But finally I have a relationship with my daughter. And that’s all that matters.
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Acknowledgements
There are several people without whom this book would still be a figment of the imagination. Heartfelt thanks go to Laetitia Rutherford, my agent, who saw the potential in the first draft of If You Only Knew and whose guidance was instrumental in turning that early version into the story of today. I am so grateful to Sarah Ritherdon, my editor, for her support and enthusiasm and her gentle direction. And to Mark Baynham for his patience and determination to get a decent photo of me.
My mum will never read this, but it is thanks to her and Dad that I love immersing myself in stories from near and far. They filled our home with books, left them within reach of a toddler, and always encouraged me to pick one up and leaf through the pages, even before I could read.
The bulk of work on If You Only Knew took place while I was expecting my twins. Every kick, every move, every hiccup kept me going. Ella Wren and Raina Neave you were my inspiration even before you were born.
I am so grateful to my in-laws, Jack and Louise, for taking care of the girls for several hours every day of their last trip to London while I made the final tweaks.
And lastly, but mostly, the biggest thank you goes to Justin, my husband. If You Only Knew isn’t dedicated to him by accident or because it was the appropriate thing to do. He has always been my biggest supporter, the one who pushed me to follow my dreams, who listened to me ramble on about the characters as if they were our closest friends. Thank you for always being there.
About Cynthia Clark
CYNTHIA CLARK was born and brought up in Malta, where she graduated in Communications and went to work for a daily newspaper. She has since lived in the US, where she worked as a writer in online business journals. She and her husband now live in London with their twin daughters.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the UK in 2017 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Cynthia Clark, 2017
The moral right of Cynthia Clark to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781786699657
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