PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE
‘Amanda Prowse is the queen of contemporary family drama.’
Daily Mail
‘A tragic story of loss and love.’
Lorraine Kelly, Sun
‘Captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’
Closer
‘A deeply emotional, unputdownable read.’
Red
‘Uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box of tissues.’
Cosmopolitan
‘You’ll fall in love with this.’
Cosmopolitan
‘Warning: you will need tissues.’
Sun on Sunday
‘Handles her explosive subject with delicate care.’
Daily Mail
‘Deeply moving and eye-opening.’
Heat
‘A perfect marriage morphs into harrowing territory . . . a real tear-jerker.’
Sunday Mirror
‘Powerful and emotional drama that packs a real punch.’
Heat
‘Warmly accessible but subtle . . . moving and inspiring.’
Daily Mail
‘A powerful and emotional work of fiction with a unique twist – a practical lesson in how to spot a fatal, but often treatable disease.’
Piers Morgan, CNN presenter
‘A truly amazing piece of drama about a condition that could affect any one of us in a heartbeat. Every mother should read this book.’
Danielle Lineker, actor
‘A powerful and emotional page-turner that teaches people with no medical training how to recognise sepsis and save lives.’
Dr Ranj Singh, paediatric doctor and BBC presenter
‘A powerful and moving story with a real purpose. It brings home the dreadful nature of this deadly condition.’
Mark Austin, ITN presenter
‘A festive treat . . . if you love Jojo Moyes and Freya North, you’ll love this.’
Closer
‘Magical.’
Now
‘Nobody writes contemporary family dramas as well as Amanda Prowse.’
Daily Mail
OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA PROWSE
Anna
Theo
How to Fall in Love Again: Kitty’s story
The Art of Hiding
The Idea of You
Poppy Day
What Have I Done?
Clover’s Child
A Little Love
Christmas for One
Will You Remember Me?
A Mother’s Story
Perfect Daughter
Three-and-a-Half Heartbeats (exclusive to Amazon Kindle)
The Second Chance Café (originally published as The Christmas Café)
Another Love
My Husband’s Wife
I Won’t Be Home for Christmas
The Food of Love
OTHER NOVELLAS BY AMANDA PROWSE
The Game
Something Quite Beautiful
A Christmas Wish
Ten Pound Ticket
Imogen’s Baby
Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea
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 © 2018 by Amanda Prowse
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: 9781503904958
ISBN-10: 1503904954
Cover design by Emma Graves
This book is for my brother, Simon Ward Smith,
The funniest, sharpest person I know – Simon, you have been making me laugh my whole life and I am thankful that you are my brother.
Amelie is so very lucky to have you – the best dad in the whole wide world!
I borrowed one of your walking routes for this book.
And I dedicate The Coordinates of Loss to you.
With love now and always
Mandy xx
CONTENTS
THE COORDINATES OF LOSS
ONE
CEE-CEE
TWO
CEE-CEE
THREE
CEE-CEE
FOUR
CEE-CEE
FIVE
CEE-CEE
SIX
CEE-CEE
SEVEN
CEE-CEE
EIGHT
CEE-CEE
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE COORDINATES OF LOSS
My tears do sea diamonds make.
Each tiny drop of heartache woven into the great blue that lies between my world and yours; this fractured sea.
With hollow heart and red-wrought eyes I look back at the trail I have left and see nothing,
But cresting waves, shot through with life, lost to a current that takes you further and further into that regrettable abyss.
And should I twist my aching head on fragile neck to look towards the horizon I see nothing,
But the vast, azure and navy canvas, stretching to infinity; leading me further and further away from a place I crave.
The place where my happiness used to lie with you on the other side of the sea. For now, I feel nothing.
For I loved you.
I loved you.
I will always love you.
And now I live for eternity in deep, blue grief.
ONE
Rachel always thought it felt like a gift to wake up smiling.
Today was no different.
She stretched her tanned arm over her head and took a deep breath, considering that this, the gentle rocking of a boat, was quite possibly the best alarm clock in the whole wide world. Her mind flitted to the cold winter mornings of her youth when her dad whistled through the flimsy bathroom wall as he shaved, rain beating on the double-glazed picture windows and the smell of toast wafting up the stairs of her mum and dad’s flat-fronted 1970s house. It had been a struggle to heft her body from the warm nest of duvet that covered the dip in the mattress where she liked to curl. A struggle and a chore, the promise of a loo floor, chilly underfoot, and the long walk to school along grey pavements, avoiding the spray from speeding lorries, no real incentive to get on with the job.
This morning, she nestled back on to the soft mattress and took another deep breath that developed into a yawn. Slowly she opened one eye, closing it again quickly. Sunlight filtered in from the hatch above their bed in the rear berth, warming the air into a pleasant fug that cocooned them in this tiny space. There was something unique about sleeping like this, in a boat out on the ocean. It felt like an island, an oasis, away from the pace of real life; away from everything. Safe and sound, away from traffic, machinery, people and all the things that might bring them harm. It was as close to heaven as she could imagine.
It always took her one night to settle into the pace of life on the boat, and as she lay there, after the first night of three out at sea, she knew she had arrived. The rest of the trip stretched out ahead of them like a promise and she could barely quell the leap of happiness in her gut.
What’s on the agenda for today? Spot of fishing. Swimmin
g. More swimming. Supper on the deck, maybe a bottle of fizz or a cold beer, as we watch the sunset . . .
She smiled and turned on to her side, running her finger over the strong, tanned back of her husband.
‘I am not prepared to wake up yet. So you can cut that out,’ James groaned, in the groggy voice she knew meant that they had gone one bottle too many in the champagne stakes last night.
She laughed her throaty chuckle. ‘I told you we should call it a day after that first bottle, but no.’ She leaned forward and kissed his skin. ‘Come on! Life is for the living! That’s what you said.’
‘You win. You were right. But that doesn’t help me right now,’ he moaned.
‘Plus’ – she flicked her long, chestnut hair over her shoulder and sidled against him, lifting her leg and wrapping it around both of his as she pulled against him – ‘you should be glad I still want to disturb your beauty sleep in this way after eight years of marriage.’
‘I am glad,’ he whispered. ‘But can you let me show you how glad after a bit more sleep? Just five more minutes.’
‘It might cure your hangover,’ she suggested, kissing the back of his neck and running her hand over the flat of his stomach, reaching down.
‘Is the door locked?’ He turned and lay back on the bed, glancing at the varnished oak door. ‘I can see you’re not going to take no for an answer.’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded and climbed on to him, bending to kiss him full on the mouth, this beautiful man she got to wake up next to every day . . .
‘Coffee?’ She yawned again, slipping on her vest and calf-length, cotton PJ bottoms, as James sat on the side of the bed and scrolled through his phone.
‘Oh, yes please, and lots of it.’
‘How’s your hangover?’ she asked cockily.
‘Gone, would you believe.’ He smiled at her over his shoulder before something on the screen caught his attention.
‘Remember the rule, no work while we are out here. This is family time.’
‘I’m looking at the footie scores!’ He flashed her the screen and poked out his tongue, happy to have proved his innocence.
‘I’ll let you off.’ Rachel fastened the white cotton waffle robe around her midriff and opened the door, treading the single step down into the quiet cabin.
She had half-expected to hear the zany burble of cartoons coming from the wall-mounted TV, or at least the canned laughter from one of the Nickelodeon programmes that seemed to be permanently playing on her son’s iPad. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, igniting the ring by bending low with one finger on the button and her hair coiled and bunched in her other hand as she watched the tick, tick, tick of gas flare into life. A quick glance at the clock told her it was six forty-five. Her boy, usually an early riser, had slept in. Thank the lord!
She had enjoyed her leisurely wake-up this morning and even more what came after . . . It was good for her and James to have these stolen moments of bliss away from the busy whirl of life where either one or both of them were permanently dancing in and out of the wide front door with car keys in hand and one eye on the clock. It seemed crazy that they lived in the same house, shared a bed, and yet she missed him, missed quality time with him. It was an irony, how life in paradise came at this cost.
Tiptoeing to the door that sat parallel to theirs, she carefully pushed it open. The second berth, a little smaller than theirs, was warm. She looked up at the hatch and decided to open it right up, get some fresh sea air into the space and remove the smell of a little boy who thought it funny to parp beneath the covers.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’ She eyed the lump of duvet, pale blue and covered in crudely drawn sailing ships; red, with darker blue-and-white striped sails. She’d bought it three or four years ago when he still had one foot in toddlerhood, but now considered replacing the bed linen with something a little more grown up, maybe Star Wars? She’d have a look online or get her mum to do it back in the UK; she liked to set her chores that were connected to her grandson, knowing it made her feel involved and less remote.
‘Oscar?’ she called, softly now. ‘It’s a beautiful day and I thought we could have our breakfast out on the deck, how about that? Croissants and juice. And before you ask, that is all we have.’ She pre-empted his regular request for whatever she hadn’t listed. It was like a game to him and one she heard him and Cee-Cee laughing over of a morning.
‘I can make you French toast?’ the housekeeper would offer.
‘Can I have bacon?’ his countermove.
‘No! No bacon. I’ve got cornflakes?’
‘Do you have Choco Puffs?’ and on it went.
Cee-Cee had more time and patience than she.
‘Oscar?’ she called again. Still nothing. Bending down, she noted that his head wasn’t on the pillow. She reached down and pulled the duvet back to reveal her son’s bed, empty.
‘Where are you, you little rascal?’ She looked around the confined area, knowing logically that there was nowhere for him to hide in here, nowhere big enough to conceal a seven-year-old boy.
‘Oscar?’ she walked back into the cabin and let her eyes glance at the banquette on the other side of the fixed dining table, knowing he sometimes liked to lie on it. But he wasn’t there. A similar look around the tiny bathroom revealed it to be empty. Next, she scanned the curved sofa that ran the length of the galley-cum-sitting room, before climbing the steps and pulling herself through the hatch up on to the deck.
‘Oscar?’ Her tone soured a little now, as the beginnings of anger flared. He knew he wasn’t to come up here alone, not ever. She held the port-side guardrail and walked carefully along, scanning ahead to the sunbathing area at the foredeck where he liked to languish with his iPad resting on his raised knees and a cushion under his head. She could see it was empty, but stood there nonetheless, staring at the white vinyl cushions with the blue-piped edging, almost as if she believed that if she looked long enough, he might pop up.
The kettle whistled. And fear started to bloom in her chest.
Rachel turned and looked towards the back of the boat from where the yacht could be steered either with the steering wheel when they were under power, or with the tiller, now resting in its neutral position, when they were under sail. Here there was also seating on either side with storage cubbies below.
The kettle stopped whistling.
Moving now with speed, swinging from the rear stanchion and with her breath coming fast, she jumped down into the rear of the boat and with a sense of urgency yanked the cushions from the seats, flinging them on to the floor before fixing her finger in the brass loop handles and pulling up the base of the cubbies. She stared into the stowage space. Her eyes registered the coiled ropes, a spare fender, a pump and two pairs of flippers, one large and one small. Shielding her eyes with her hands, trying to dampen the glare of the morning sun, she searched the water from the back of the boat. There were cresting arcs of foam, a bobbing blue, plastic rope trailing from the rear deck, and even the flash of iridescent scaled skin – fish on an early-morning hunt.
But no seven-year-old boy.
‘Coffee!’ James called from below. ‘Rach, Oscar! Coffee’s ready!’
She stood still, as if frozen and more than a little confused, as she waited for her husband to pop his head through the hatch as he climbed from the galley.
‘Coffee, darling!’ He raised two mugs. ‘Do you want me to bring it up or are you coming down?’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t find Oscar.’ She swallowed, using up the remainder of her spit to speak.
James laughed. ‘What do you mean you can’t find him?’ He knitted his brows, still smiling, and yes, she had to admit, it was just as ridiculous as it sounded. They were only three on this thirty-two-foot yacht – a space smaller than their entrance lobby at home and with only so many places to be, and yet she couldn’t find him.
Ridiculous.
‘Well, he’ll be hiding!’ He turned back and disappeared.
‘You look up there and I’ll do down here.’
She didn’t want to say she had already looked; better right now to think that she had been outfoxed, searched badly, and that James would extract him from whatever nook or cranny he had managed to secrete himself in. Yes, this was much better, because the alternative . . .
She walked back to the front of the boat, her heart beating loudly in her throat, and began to plead silently under her breath as she removed the cushions that lay flat on the foredeck; of course he wasn’t there. Logic should have told her that for someone to hide beneath the cushions, there would have been a giveaway lump, a bump, but there was not.
Please, please, please, Oscar, please come out now . . .
Rachel was not thinking logically; she had entered the beginning of panic.
She ran her eyes over the top of the boat at head height, knowing that had her solid boy been standing on that at any point it would have been obvious, but she looked nonetheless.
Her limbs began to shake and her blood felt simultaneously icy and yet thick in her veins. ‘James?’ she called.
He appeared on the deck, his mouth wide open, his head jerking and his eyes wide.
‘Where is he?’ he asked, as if hoping she might have the answer.
She noticed he too was having difficulty catching a breath.
Instantly, and in an almost choreographed move, she raced to the port-side and her husband starboard, each holding the thin metal rails as they peered overboard, scouring the water. ‘Oscar!’ she called loudly.
‘Oscar!’ he called louder.
‘Oscar!’ she yelled.
‘Os-caaar!’ he bellowed.
All the while their eyes darted about the surface of the ocean, drawn to any change in light, any flicker of movement.
‘Oscar!’ She was screaming now. ‘Oscar!’ she screamed again, as loud as she could, her body folded over.
She heard a splash; heartened, she ran to the other side of the boat, but it was only the sound of James, who had jumped in and now bobbed in the water, turning his head this way and that, still calling, yelling with a rawness to his tone that was petrifying; it told her he was out of control, flailing. ‘Oscar!’
Taking his lead, she ran back to the other side of the boat and did the same. She jumped, hitting the Atlantic Ocean and not caring that she was in her pyjamas, careless about anything other than finding her son.
The Coordinates of Loss Page 1