Her Name Was Rose

by Claire Allan

  He had just turned the key in the lock when I heard a crash beside me, looked down and saw a cup in shards at Cian’s feet. Another thud, and Cian swearing, his hand rising to his head. A plate. A cup. Enough to disarm him – to surprise him – to gain the upper hand. I saw flashes of Owen. Tried to process his words. The police were on their way. Cian turning to rush at him – my body jolting to life, stretching my foot in front of him, tripping him, watching him stumble and try to find his feet, pushing him over, watching him fall, giving Owen enough time to fell him to the ground, enough time for me to follow through and grab his hands, push them flat into his back.

  ‘You don’t get to hurt anyone else,’ Owen shouted, raising his fist and punching Cian as hard as he could before falling back, sitting on the floor and just looking at Cian Grahame – this man who had ruined so many lives, directly and indirectly, and shaking his head. ‘You had everything. Cian. You threw it all away.’

  The sound of footsteps, heavy and urgent outside. The door pushing open. Police officers, armed, tall, dark, looming, everywhere. Someone, DS Bradley lifting me back, holding me to him, telling me it would be okay. He rocked me as I cried and shook and watched Cian be led away. He whispered that I would be okay over and over again until I started to believe it.

  I would be okay.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  This was my favourite spot in the world. This desk, looking out of the sash windows over the vista of the Donegal coastline. I lifted another sheet of paper and continued writing my letter. There was little as rewarding as seeing the pages fill with the handwritten word, before folding the crisp white sheets, putting them in an envelope and carefully writing the address on the outside.

  It had become my Sunday morning hobby. Relaxing in my living room, taking time to catch up on my letters. Although my life was one I no longer wanted to escape from, it was different from what I thought it would be – but it was rewarding and calm and happy.

  Most of all I felt content. I felt as if I finally knew what was important and what was real. I’d taken my lead from Rose – I suppose – when I closed down my social media accounts, and decided to return to traditional letter writing. Maud had thought I had finally cracked at first – but in a good way. A nice way. I had heard her laugh when I told her to watch out for her post. It hadn’t taken long for her to admit she loved it – loved getting something other than bills landing in her mailbox. Now she looked forward to my weekly missives greatly. Of course we still spoke on the phone, and occasionally we exchanged emails, but the real emotions, the reality of life was poured out onto paper each Sunday morning.

  I had even reconnected with my parents – written to them and explained everything that had happened. I apologised if I had hurt them and they had come to see me, held me close. They told me they were most annoyed and angered that I hadn’t asked them for help. They didn’t know how to reach out to me. I realised as much as they had shut me out, I had shut them out too. It wasn’t easy and there were bumps in the road – but we were on that road at least. It felt so good.

  Folding their letter, I slipped it into the envelope and wrote their address – the house where I grew up – on the front of it. Then I sat back for a moment, sipped from my coffee cup, listened to the crackle of the logs on the wood fire. I watched the rhythm of the sea and it was no longer something that promised to wash me away from it all. It was back to being a beautiful, timeless, reassuring reminder that life goes on.

  I wondered a little about Jack. I hoped he was happy. After Cian’s arrest, Rose’s family had been able to gain custody. There was some benefit to Cian not staying in touch with his family, I supposed. I had seen him once. He was in the ice-cream parlour, his face sticky with cream and jelly, and was laughing at his grandmother singing songs to him. I knew, despite the horrible deck life had dealt him, he would always be loved.

  It’s all any of us can wish for. Certainly, I hoped that if the day came when I was blessed enough to have a baby of my own, that baby would always know he or she was loved.

  I’d love to tell you Cian suffered greatly – as he deserved to, but life is funny. Ingrid Devlin stepped in where I stepped out, it seemed. Although looking back, I’m pretty sure she had already stepped in even when Cian and I were technically together. She has stood by him – strongly and publicly. He’s been painted as a romantic hero – a man who killed the man who stole his wife from him. A crime of passion by a man who simply loved too much. And people have bought it, because, as we all know Cian Grahame is very good at painting a false impression of himself. I heard Ingrid was, with his help, writing a book on it – had a deal signed and all. I believe there is talk of a movie. Apparently, he gets a lot of fan mail from poor deluded women – women just like I was – who think he is a broken man they can fix. I wish I could tell them all he is not a man who can be put back together, but I have had to let that go. My counsellor said it was the best thing I could do. Let go of what I couldn’t control.

  She has been a star – even if at times I have had to be dragged almost kicking and screaming through the door to her. I didn’t want to give up my crutches you see – the pills and the booze – but I needed to feel again. I needed to live.

  It’s Donna who has my sympathy in all this. I know that sounds strange, given what she was responsible for. But I do believe her when she said it was never meant to be like that. Rose was never meant to die. I believed her when she said if she had wanted to really hurt Rose, she would have told Cian – but she didn’t want to risk that. She knew what he could be like, and that he would take his anger out on both Rose and her beloved Owen.

  Donna had a hard life. All she wanted was to be loved and she thought she had that with Owen. Even if it was only ever really a figment of her imagination. Her life was so tough – such a relentless circle of never feeling appreciated – she felt desperate. Desperate enough to empty the savings account she had kept for her boys’ university days to pay Kevin McDaid.

  She never denied the charge. She admitted it and she wept in court and said she would never be able to say enough how sorry she was. I had felt heartsore for her. I understood that desperation to be loved.

  I don’t think she had many people standing behind her to support her. Her boys were mortified, horrified by their mother’s actions. I had to keep in touch with her – let her know that she wasn’t worthless. She wasn’t a terrible person, even if she had done a terrible thing.

  I didn’t tell Owen that I wrote to her though. I don’t think he would understand. He is a good man – an honest, caring man – but he can’t yet find it in his heart to forgive her. He might do someday, he said, but it was still a little too raw. I think it will be raw for him for a long time. Rose was the love of his life. As much as he doesn’t look so worn out, so beaten down by life every day – as much as he can laugh and smile with us in work on occasion – it is clear there is a part of him missing.

  He has become a good friend to me, someone I can confide in. Someone who does, on occasion, kick my ass into going to my counselling sessions. He even helped me find my new home, arranged the moving van and helped load and unload my belongings. He’s a good man. The best. I hope – really hope – he will find happiness at some stage, or contentment at least. Isn’t that all that we really want?

  Clicking the lid back on my pen, I heard the scrabble of paws on the wood floor following my footsteps. It was time for walkies. A stroll along the beach. The door to the study pushed open and in ran Buster, his tail wagging wildly behind him. He proceeded to charge around in circles as if urging me to get up and get a move on. ‘Okay, boy,’ I said, petting him, ruffling his fur. ‘Let me get ready and I’ll grab your lead.’

  I glanced at the clock. It was almost midday and I was definitely cutting it fine. ‘I won’t be long, I promise,’ I said as I walked past him into the hall, where I pulled on my coat and boots and lifted his lead down from its hook. Wrapping my scarf around my neck, I clipped his lead
on and headed to my front door, down my garden path and across the road to the beach.

  It was quiet at this time of day, especially given that winter was still making itself felt. A few stragglers walked up and down the sand. Dogs running, dipping in and out of the water.

  I saw him in the distance – his tall frame making me smile. Bonnie, his golden Labrador ran, off lead, beside him, bounding on the sand. I raised my hand to wave to him, saw him wave in response and watched as Buster took off in his direction.

  ‘It’s a cold one today,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was almost tempted to call you and cancel.’

  ‘A bit of cold doesn’t bother a big, burly man like you, does it?’

  He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘I prefer the heat if truth be told. But Bonnie would never forgive me if I was late for one of her walks with Buster.’

  ‘Good for Bonnie,’ I said, looping my arm in his.

  ‘To tell the truth, I think I would be annoyed at myself if I missed my date with you too,’ he said kissing the top of my head.

  ‘And so you should be. Now – the full length of this beach and back – and then back to mine, where I have a nice fire burning and a roast in the oven.’

  ‘You’re spoiling me,’ he said.

  I stopped and looked up at him, drinking in his features. This man – who had helped me, soothed me, protected me and who was slowly but surely teaching me what real love could be. My heart fluttered and I stood up on my tiptoes to kiss him gently on the lips.

  ‘You deserve it,’ I said with a smile. ‘Now, last one to that rock is a rotten egg,’ I said, taking off at speed – enjoying the sound of DS David Bradley’s laugh in my wake.

  Acknowledgements

  First of all, my thanks must go to my editor Phoebe Morgan for taking on a former women’s fiction author trying to break into a new genre. Thanks for your enthusiasm, encouragement and guidance which helped polish this book to what it is now. I will be eternally grateful to you and all the team at Avon for taking a chance on me and for showing ‘Rose’ so much love and dedication.

  In a similar vein, my agent Ger Nichol who played match-maker and found me this wonderful new home, thank you. We’ve been through a lot together but you have steadfastly been on my side and offered friendship as well as guidance. Thank you.

  Pulling this book together took a lot of research and hard work. Changing genres from women’s fiction to thrillers required a leap of faith and I can’t thank the friends, in writing and otherwise, who offered guidance and assured me all along that I could do it.

  Most especially thanks to Fionnuala Kearney, beta reader extraordinaire, FaceTime legend and one of the best friends a girl could have, and to Margaret Scott and Caroline Finnerty for always being there. Always. Day and night. Even when I was hysterical.

  Thanks also to Emma Hannigan, Melissa Hill, Sheila O’Flanagan, Rowan Coleman, Cally Taylor, Brian McGilloway, Claire Hennessy, Caroline Grace Cassidy and Shirley Benton.

  Massive thanks to Marian Keyes for encouragement and her wonderful and generous endorsement of this book – and to her Himself, Tony Baines, for his support also. Marian, you always have been and will continue to be a huge inspiration in my life.

  To my beta readers, Jacintha O’Reilly Mooney, Julie-Anne Campbell (just be, my friend!) and Margaret Bonass Madden for helping iron out the early crises and for informing me when it all got a bit ‘too Derry’.

  My friends, especial Vicki, also one of the very best friends a girl could have. We’ve come a long way baby.

  To the former ‘Journal’ girls who made a leap of faith with me – thank you, Bernie, Catherine and especially Erin for continued faith in me when I had little in myself.

  And to the women who helped me find the confidence to be the person I always wanted to be, Carey Ann and Sandra, my cheerleaders and friends.

  Writing makes for a solitary life – so to those Twitter friends who are my online work colleagues during the day thank you for the laughs, distractions, understanding and friendship. From the writers, to the readers, the Strictly watchers, the fellow spoonies, the crochet fans and all those randomers I have encountered along the way, thank you. There are too many of you to name individually but I hope you know who you are. Mention must go to my Twitter muse Lesley Price, who has become a true and hilariously bad-ass friend. I’d be lost without your sense of humour and your take on inspirational quotes. And to Stevie, aka Mr S, the man in the hat, for talking sense and enjoying the banter when I need a laugh.

  When it comes to closer to home, I may get emotional so I’ll try and keep this tight and to the point. To my husband, thank you for having the faith in me to encourage and support me while I took a big chance on this whole writing thing. I love you.

  To my children, in the words of Bryan Adams, everything I do, I do it for you. I love you both with all my heart and I thank you for all the times you understood when Mum was ‘writing that book again’.

  To my wider family, I love you. Thank you especially to Marie-Louise, Auntie Raine and Mimi for supporting me and believing in me.

  To my siblings, Lisa, Peter and Emma and assorted partners, children, dogs and cats. Thank you for enduring life with a tortured artiste.

  To all the ‘Roses’ and ‘Emilys’ of the world who have shared their stories with me over the years. Thank you for your honesty and your bravery.

  To my readers, who I hope enjoy the change of pace. All the booksellers, librarians, publishing people and lovely journalists and bloggers, thank you.

  And finally, to my parents, to whom this book is dedicated – it’s been a long time coming but you have never, for one second, doubted me. I love you both with all my heart and I couldn’t have asked for better.

  Book Club Questions

  1. Why do you think Rose tries so hard to maintain an image of perfection throughout the book?

  2. Who do you think is the victim of this story?

  3. How do you think the men in this novel are portrayed?

  4. The use of social media and how we show ourselves to others is a theme in this book. Do you think social media makes people more competitive with each other?

  5. What did you think of the title of the book? Do you think it ties in well with the themes of domestic abuse? Would you have given the book a different title?

  6. Cian comes across as a sympathetic character to both Rose and Emily when they meet him. Particularly in the case of Rose, do you think he always had controlling tendencies but was able to keep them hidden until the relationship was well established?

  7. What did you think of the portrayal of Donna in the book? Do you think she was as close to Rose as she stated, or was their friendship marred by jealousy?

  8. This book deals with some very dark themes – notably the issue of suicidal thoughts and depression. Do you think these issues were handled sensitively?

  9. The book is set in the author’s home town of Derry~Londonderry in Northern Ireland. Do you think the location added anything to the story?

  If you are struggling with any of the issues covered in this book, the contact details for Women’s Aid and The Samaritans are listed below.

  Women’s Aid: 0808 2000 247 (24 hour free-phone)

  helpine@womensaid.org.uk

  The Samaritans: 116 123 (UK & ROI)

  jo@samaritans.org

  About the Author

  Claire Allan is a former journalist from Derry in Northern Ireland, where she still lives with her husband, two children, two cats and a hyperactive puppy.

  In her eighteen years as a journalist she covered a wide range of stories from attempted murders, to court sessions, to the Saville Inquiry into the events of Bloody Sunday right down to the local parish notes.

  She has previously published eight women’s fiction novels. Her Name Was Rose is her first thriller.

  When she’s not writing, she’ll more than likely be found on Twitter @claireallan.

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  About the Publisher

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