by A J McDine
When She Finds You
A J McDine
For Adrian, Oliver and Thomas.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the author
Book club questions
Prologue
I am slumped on the bus, head resting against the window, my hands clasped around the holdall on my lap. Outside, people go about their business, oblivious to my impending ordeal. An old woman shuffles along the pavement behind a scuffed brown shopping trolley. A teenage boy on a BMX bike swerves to avoid her, raising his middle finger in anger as he passes. Beady-eyed pigeons watch the bus trundle past from their rooftop eyries. Office workers head for the park to spend their lunch hours working on their melanomas.
A trickle of sweat crawls between my shoulder blades and I shift on the sticky seat. It is hot. Too hot. The sky is as blue as a forget-me-not and there’s not a cloud in sight. By rights rain should be lashing against the grubby bus window, the sky leaden like my heart. You might say I’m being fanciful, but I couldn’t give a toss what you think. This relentlessly sunny summer’s day is obscene.
My eye is caught by a harassed-looking woman standing on a street corner with a pushchair in front of her and a toddler by her side. The toddler, chubby almost to the point of being obese, is dressed in a flesh-pink princess costume, fairy wings and spotty wellies. She looks like a grotesque salmon-coloured slug. To add insult to injury her mother has scraped her fine blonde hair into a single pigtail that protrudes from the top of her head like pampas grass. It looks ridiculous.
My heart rate quickening, I crane my neck to see inside the pram, but the baby is hidden from view by a navy parasol. Does it look like its sister, I wonder, then give my head a little shake. Who actually cares? All babies look like Winston Churchill anyway.
The bus grinds to a halt at a set of traffic lights, the air brakes hissing like an angry cat. I check my watch. I’m cutting it fine. I’m supposed to be there at eleven and it’s already twenty to. I reach into my bag for the letter, the action a reflex. It’s right at the bottom, hidden under my pyjamas and wash bag. I unfold it and re-read it, even though I know it off by heart. Seeing it in black and white makes it feel real, and my throat tightens.
My eyes skim the time of my in-patient appointment, the name of the ward, the date. The letter flutters as my hands tremble. I tighten my hold and keep reading. Dos and don’ts. Don’t eat or drink anything from midnight the night before the procedure. Do make sure there’s someone to look after you afterwards. A bitter little laugh escapes my throat before I have a chance to swallow it down and a pensioner two rows in front throws me a puzzled look. I ball the letter in my fist and slide further down the slippery orange plastic seat, hugging the holdall to my chest.
Procedure. Such an inoffensive word for such an invasive act. My stomach is churning at the very thought of it.
It’s the right thing to do, I tell myself for the gazillionth time. The procedure will give me a fresh start, a new beginning. It’ll wipe the slate clean. I’ll be sparkly and new. Without it, my future’s uncertain, hopeless. I know I’m being fanciful again, like some angst-filled heroine in a bleak Victorian saga.
So fucking what?
The pensioner turns around a second time, his salt and pepper eyebrows raised. Did I say that out loud? Maybe. Probably. I glare at him until he looks away, muttering under his breath.
The bus turns right into the road that leads to the hospital. Reaching up, I press the bell and the air brakes hiss again. I sway along the aisle until I’m standing next to the driver. He smells of coffee and cheap aftershave.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter as the doors open and I jump onto the pavement, careful as always to avoid the cracks. Like I need any more bad luck.
I hitch my bag onto my shoulder and gaze at the slab building, an ugly jumble of glass and concrete. My heart is pounding and my stomach is turning somersaults. For a moment I contemplate turning away and catching the next bus home. Should I? Could I?
Deep down I know it’s not an option. My choices ran out a long time ago. I lick my lips and head for the hospital doors.
Chapter One
Now
Canterbury is busy. Shoppers wander aimlessly in front of me and on every street corner groups of French and Belgian schoolchildren jostle each other as their teachers count heads and consult clipboards.
I shoulder my way past them all as I head towards Fenwick, as focused on the department store as a cruise missile is on its target. I promise myself I won’t get waylaid in White Stuff. No point at the moment, anyway. I give my belly a rub; I’m rewarded with an answering kick.
Out of habit I ferret around in my bag, pull out my phone and check to see if there’s a text from Matt. There isn’t, so I slip the phone back into my bag with a sigh. We argued again last night. Without warning, one throwaway remark escalated into a full-blown row and although we eventually made up, the sporadic texts we’ve pinged back and forth since have none of their usual warmth or humour. They’re devoid of both emoji and emotion.
That’s why I’m determined to find the perfect birthday present for him - to apologise and show him how much I love him. Need him.
The men’s department is on the ground floor, sandwiched between handbags and the café. I wander past the rails of designer clothes, fingering cashmere sweaters and holding shirts aloft, narrowing my eyes as I picture Matt wearing them.
‘Need any help today, madam?’ says a shop assistant, sidling over. He has a neat beard and a sharp suit. Probably had avocados on toast for breakfast.
‘I’m looking for a present for my husband. He’s thirty-five tomorrow,’ I add, as if Mr Avocado could give a toss.
‘What about a leather jacket?’ He’s already heading over to a row of stylish biker jackets.
I swallow. Money is tight, especially with my maternity leave looming. ‘I was thinking more of a shirt.’ I say with an apologetic smile.
To his credit he doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Then you’re in luck. The Paul Smith shirts go on sale in the morning. I’m marking them up now. See if there’s anything you think he’d like.’
My eye is drawn to a cornflower-blue shirt already sporting a thirty per cent off sticker. ‘This is nice,’ I say, knowing it’ll bring out the blue of Matt’s eyes.
‘What size?’
Although Matt has the broad, mu
scular shoulders of a swimmer he likes his shirts fitted to show off his pecs, his one vanity.
‘Medium, probably.’
The shop assistant hums to himself as his fingers march along the rail of shirts. Just when I think I’m out of luck he pulls one out with a ‘Ta da!’
I pay and thank him for his help, and he heads towards the Hugo Boss suits, still quietly humming to himself.
Relieved to have bagged a bargain and hopeful Matt will love the shirt I take the escalator down to the basement and choose a funny card and some Star Wars wrapping paper I know will make him laugh.
I’m about to head back up to the ground floor when the lift doors open behind me and a willowy woman pushing a buggy steps out. I pause. I’d forgotten the children’s department was down here. I always avoid baby shops. I’m superstitious like that. And who can blame me? But something is drawing me towards the rails of tiny sleepsuits, dresses and dungarees. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick look? I glance down at my bump, as if seeking approval. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. A somersault for yes and a kick for no? Stupid Sophie. And to prove me right the baby is still. I wrestle with myself for a second or two. Heart wins over head and I follow the willowy woman to the children’s department.
‘When are you due?’ the woman at the till says as she rings through what now seems a hideously extravagant pile of sleepsuits and bodysuits in shades of sugared almonds.
‘Two months,’ I tell her, wondering whether I should put some back. ‘It’s the first time I’ve bought anything. Haven’t wanted to tempt fate, you know?’
She folds a pair of powder-blue dungarees and slips them into a carrier bag. ‘I’m sure everything will be just fine.’
I blanche as she tells me how much I’ve spent and press my credit card into her hand before I change my mind. She hands me four bulging bags.
‘Just make sure you keep the receipt.’ She nods at my bump. ‘In case it’s not.’
Guilt at the amount of money I’ve spent morphs into an uneasy fear that by splurging on baby clothes I’ve somehow provoked the Fates, and my stomach is churning as I step onto the escalator. I’ve allowed myself to be seduced by the dream of a picture-perfect future and I berate myself for my weakness. I should know better. My hopes have been dashed too many times by fertility specialists wearing white coats and concerned expressions.
That’s when I see him. A wave of shock hits me so forcefully I sway and have to grab the handrail to stop myself toppling backwards. In the blink of an eye I’m seventeen again. I drink in his features. Messy brown hair. Broad, untroubled forehead. A trace of a smile on his face. My heart flutters in my chest and I squeeze the handrail until my knuckles whiten.
‘Ed?’ I whisper.
He laughs and I flinch, old insecurities resurfacing. White leads trail from his ears to an iPhone in his hand. He wasn’t laughing at me. He must be listening to a podcast. I remind myself that podcasts didn’t exist when I was seventeen and no-one our age had mobile phones. I remember I’m the wrong side of forty, with grey roots and crow’s feet, and I’m staring at a boy young enough to be my son with my tongue virtually hanging out. I flush and look away.
As our escalators rattle past each other I sneak another look. I can’t help myself. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments. But something’s out of kilter. His eyes are brown, not hazel, flecked with green. There’s a dimple in his chin that Ed never had. Ed was tall and rangy. This boy is too stocky. And yet…
The escalator reaches the ground floor and I step off. A floor below the brown-haired boy disappears from view. I could catch the escalator back down, find him, ask who he is, why he’s here. But deep down I already know. I’ve always known. Past hurts and grievances rise to the surface like scum on an incoming tide and I fight a wave of nausea. Seeing him here, in my city, was inevitable, I realise that now. It was only ever a matter of time.
Chapter Two
Now
The carrier bags hidden underneath a tartan picnic blanket in the boot of my car, I drive past the police station towards the south of the city. By the time I’ve turned onto Stone Street, the old Roman Road linking Canterbury to Lympne, I’ve convinced myself it’s a complete coincidence the boy on the escalator happened to look like a boy I once knew. Seven-and-a-half billion people live on this planet. It’s hardly surprising some of them look like each other.
After a couple of hundred metres I indicate left and bump up a gravelled driveway following signs to Camomile Community Garden. The closer I get, the calmer I feel. The garden has that effect on people. I noticed it when I first came here to volunteer almost eight years ago. I’ve worked here ever since.
Based in what was once the kitchen garden of a 12th century manor house, Cam is a therapeutic garden for people with learning disabilities and mental health problems. We have just over thirty on our books. Social Services call them our ‘service users’. To us they are simply gardeners.
The manor house was ravaged by fire over a century ago and the four flint and brick walls of the garden and the old wine cellar where we store our tools are all that remain. We’re an island in a sea of apple orchards and acres of wheat in the heart of the Garden of England.
I park, push open the studded oak door and head for the office which, blissfully, is empty bar Mr Pickles, the tabby cat we adopted a couple of years ago. He’s sprawled, sloth-like, across Angela’s neat-as-a-pin desk.
‘She’ll have your guts for garters,’ I tell him.
He regards me through narrowed green eyes and yawns.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ I take out my sandwich and fire up my computer. I’ve a heap of emails to answer and a grant application that needs finishing. Instead I stare out of the window, my chin in my hands, lost in a maelstrom of memories.
The crunch of gravel followed by the piercing voice of my boss interrupts my reverie and I sit up with a start.
‘Sophie, are you back?’ Angela calls in that quavering voice that sets my teeth on edge.
‘In here,’ I answer, shooing Mr Pickles from her desk. He jumps to the floor in high dudgeon, his tail quivering, and stalks off to his bed next to the filing cabinet. Angela sweeps into the office, bringing with her a waft of garlic and red wine.
‘I had lunch with Bob. He says he still hasn’t received the plan for the recruitment evening.’
‘Tell him it’ll be with him by close of play,’ I say. ‘But only if you happen to be talking to him again,’ I add. A dull flush creeps up her neck and I smirk into my sandwich. Her affair with the married chairman of Cam’s board of trustees is well-known, despite her best efforts to keep it hidden.
I’m deep into my recruitment evening plans when there’s a gentle tap at the door.
‘Come in,’ I call, and Rosie’s familiar face appears around the door. She’s beaming from ear to ear and I beckon her inside.
‘Is it that time already?’ Angela tuts. The gardeners are a constant source of irritation to her. Why she decided to work here is beyond me.
I pat the seat next to mine and Rosie crashes past Angela’s desk, knocking over her in tray, and sits down with a thump.
‘Sorry Angela,’ she says automatically. Rosie is always apologising for something, whether it’s accidentally standing on a row of newly-planted seedlings, colliding with one of the visitors or having Downs Syndrome. It breaks my heart.
‘No harm done, I suppose,’ Angela says. I stifle the urge to let rip. Honestly, my hormones are all over the place today.
‘What are we doing this afternoon, Sophie?’ Rosie asks.
‘I thought we’d plant out the runner beans. We shouldn’t have another frost now.’
‘Cool,’ she says, holding out her hand to pull me up.
‘Don’t forget that plan,’ says Angela as we head out of the door, Rosie’s hand still tucked in mine.
Once we’re outside I turn around and make a show of sticking my tongue out at my boss. Rosie collapses in giggles and then looks hor
rified, pressing her fingers to her lips and whispering, ‘Sorry.’
I smile. ‘Nothing to be sorry for.’
By half past two Cam is a hive of activity. All our usual Tuesday afternoon crowd are here. I send Rosie off in search of gardening gloves, kneeling mats and trowels and head over to where Geoff, the only other member of staff, is helping Martin Miller deadhead the roses.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
Geoff knows I’m not talking about the deadheading. Martin’s behaviour is becoming increasingly erratic and it’s a cause for concern. We know from his support worker that the last time he had a psychotic episode he ended up being sectioned for six months.
‘We’re fine, aren’t we, Marty?’ Geoff says.
The younger man doesn’t appear to hear. He has zeroed in on a blown pink Chatsworth rose. He raises his secateurs and deftly snips the head off. It drops into his hand and his fingers curl into a ball, crushing the dark pink petals inside.
‘Got it!’ he says, raising his fist in the air.
‘Good job, son.’ Geoff holds out a trug. Martin drops the rose into it and they move onto the next one. He is so focused on the task I’m not even sure he knows I’m here.