She looked at the sun-lounger on which Polly had reclined in the nude. ‘I’m going to lie here and tan my cherub for a bit!’ Jessica smiled, picturing her, dear, dear Polly, her lifelong friend and now about to become a mum herself. She and Paz had shown such love and support; Jessica knew she would never be able to repay them. She considered their idea for a retreat. This would certainly be the perfect spot.
Jessica inhaled the heady floral and citrus scent that wafted on the breeze. She placed the candle on the table behind her and pulled the beautiful red leather notebook from her pocket. Opening it at random, she ran her fingers over the thick creamy pages of her journal. Alongside the words, beautiful illustrations were dotted throughout, a study of her and Matthew’s hands, entwined. Lilly’s rosebud mouth, breaking into a smile. Her mum, dad and Danny, sitting on a Devon riverbank, all wishing their holiday would never end. A diary full of thoughts and recollections never meant for anyone’s eyes but hers. She raised it to her mouth and kissed the cover of this little book that had become a friend, a friend that had helped her through her darkest of days. Days that were now behind her. Gripping a few sheets between her fingers, she ripped the pages from the spine and tore them into smaller squares before flinging the confetti over the rails to drift hundreds of feet below, scattering on the wind as they sailed away from her. She stood watching and laughed into the night wind.
Jessica tightened her dressing gown around her waist and stood pressed against the railings. There she balanced, with her fingers gripping the barrier and the candle flickering in the darkness behind her. Her gift of an acorn nestled safely inside her palm. She spoke into the darkness. ‘Oh Lilly.’ Her words when they came were delivered slowly and calmly. ‘Your grandad once told me that death changes the way people are remembered, lets those left behind pick out the best bits and disregard the bad. I think in one sense he’s right. But I want you to know that I cling to the remote possibility that we might reconnect and that I might, one day, get the chance to tell you just how much I miss you…’ Jessica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know why I got sick, Lilly, and I don’t know how I could ever make it up to you,’ she sighed, ‘but I do know that I’m your mum and I love you. I love you. Don’t ever doubt it, I love you!’
The candle flame faltered and went out.
Epilogue
Lilly was crouching in the garden, gathering stray petals from the vividly coloured lilac shrub. She would use them to make perfume that she would wear at her wedding later, when she married her teddy bear. Several dolls and her fat penguin were attending as guests. Her teddy was already dressed in his bow tie in readiness for the occasion.
Matthew smiled as his little girl chattered to herself. The New England sun warmed her skin on another bright, beautiful spring day. He watched her through the open kitchen window while he trimmed broccoli spears and prepared cauliflower for lunch.
Suddenly Lilly stood and with a tilt to her chin, looked up towards the sky and shouted, ‘Daddy?’ Her little voice was clear and golden.
Matthew beamed, knowing he would never tire of hearing that word. It made his heart sing. He placed the knife on the counter. ‘Coming!’ He made his way to the garden from the square hallway of their grand American Colonial home, glancing at the photograph of Lilly with her Grandad Roger and Nana Coral when they had come to visit. Their faces shone with joy, happy to be hand in hand with Lilly once again as she gathered acorns from the wood and gave one to her nan, a present. It had been lovely to see them; strange, but lovely. Familiar. He hoped they were well.
‘What are you doing there, Lilly Rose?’ he asked as he bent down to match her height.
‘I’m making perfume for my wedding!’ she sang rather haughtily, flicking her long curtain of hair over her shoulder. Matthew laughed; she always added a sense of the theatrical.
‘You can be a guest after you have been the vicar.’
‘Right. Got it.’ He nodded as if learning his part.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes?’
‘When you got married, did my mummy have a pretty white dress?’
Matthew thought about his beautiful bride, his golden girl. ‘Yes. Yes she did.’
‘Did she look like a princess?’ Her eyes widened.
Matthew nodded and held his little girl’s hand. He pictured Jessica standing to take a bow, remembering how the tiny crystals sewn into the delicate cream lace of her fitted bodice sparkled in the candlelight, her awkward bow before she took her place next to him, gripping his hand on the tabletop. ‘Yes. She looked exactly like a princess. She looked beautiful.’
‘Daddy?’ She did this, said his name while she thought of what next to say. He loved it.
‘Yup?’
‘I sometimes think I’d like to see my mummy. Not the photos but my in-real-life Mummy. I’d like her to do my plaits.’ She paused, placing her finger in her mouth and blinking rapidly, worried she had given too many of her inner thoughts away. Even aged five, she knew this was a sensitive area.
‘Well, we should consider that. We can talk about it some more and have a good old think about what’s best.’ He squeezed her hand, anxious as ever of shattering the peace they had found and yet torn, riddled with guilt that Lilly was without a mother and Jessica denied her little girl.
Lilly twisted her foot into the grass. ‘Do you think she’s better now, or is she still poorly?’
‘I think she’s a lot, lot better.’ He acknowledged this.
‘Madison’s mummy was poorly and she was in the hospital for a long, long time.’
Matthew nodded. The school fundraiser still fresh in his mind for Madison’s mum.
‘But…’ Lilly paused and drew breath. ‘But Madison and her sister got to see her even when she was really sick. They made her a card and when it was Madison’s birthday they took her cake into the hospital and her mum sang to her and they opened all her presents right there on the bed!’ she added wide-eyed. ‘And… and I would like to tell Mummy about my sleepover and show her my ballet stertificate.’ Quite suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and she threw herself into her dad’s arms.
‘It’s okay, Lilly Rose. It’s okay, darling.Your mummy loves you so very much. I’ve always told you that.’
‘I love her too, Daddy, but I want to speak to her. I need to ask her something.’
Matthew sighed as they made their way inside. ‘Come on, let’s dry those tears and get you cleaned up, you’ve got a wedding to get ready for, remember?’
Lilly wiped her nose and tried out a smile. Her dad was right, brides were supposed to be happy on their wedding day.
The phone rang on the breakfast bar. Paz grabbed it. ‘Hello? Hey, mate! Oh God! So good to hear your voice!’
He gesticulated wildly to Polly who stood by his side.
‘No, we’re just here for a visit – what a place. Yes. Yes of course. Hang on.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his cupped palm. ‘Go and get Jess, quickly!’ He spoke with urgency.
Jessica came in from the terrace, her shoulder-length hair hung in a glossy curtain. Her nose was peppered with freckles. ‘Who is it?’ she asked quietly, still slightly nervous of contact with the outside world, they had already had to field several calls from quote-hungry journalists.
Paz held the phone at arm’s length and struggled to find the words. ‘It’s…’ He swallowed and pushed the phone into her hands before leaving her alone.
‘Hello?’ Jessica whispered as she cradled the phone.
There was a pause on the end of the line. ‘Errmm… Mummy?’ Lilly used the word with familiarity, warmth. ‘I’m doing a project about when I was a baby…’ Lilly spoke as if it had been weeks not years since she had last had contact with her mother.
Jessica pulled the mouthpiece towards her face as the strength left her legs and she sank down onto the cool, tiled floor. Lilly’s voice was sweet and older, with a lisp. No longer a baby, she was a little person! It was beautiful, the most beautiful soun
d she had ever heard.
‘…and I wanted to ask you something.’
Jessica nodded through her haze of tears, leaning back against the breakfast bar, struggling for composure, trying to catch her breath. ‘Okay.’ It was the first word she had spoken to her daughter in nearly four years and not what she had envisioned. In her dreams she gushed I have missed you more than I can say. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. She concentrated on breathing and tried to keep her sobs at bay.
‘My teacher Mrs Liddiment said we had to ask our mummy what was the first thing you thought when you saw me for the very first time. That’s it,’ Lilly added, calm and assertive.
Jessica exhaled, struggling to stay calm, the whole encounter felt surreal. ‘Now, let me see.’ She swallowed, gathering her thoughts. Her hands shook. ‘The first time I saw you…’ Jess closed her eyes, picturing the moment. ‘Well, Daddy had you in his arms; you were wrapped up like a bundle in a white blanket. Your little face was squashed.’ Jessica smiled at the memory. ‘And I remember thinking,’ she struggled to form the words as tears clogged her nose and throat, ‘that’s my baby! My beautiful, beautiful girl!’
Matthew leant on the banister as he listened to his daughter, watching as she smiled and twirled on the spot with happiness, chatting to her mum. His thoughts flew to a rain-soaked car-park some years ago – what was it he had said? I can’t stand the idea of not spending every night with you or not seeing your face on the pillow next to mine when I wake up. I want you to have my babies. And I can’t imagine any other future than one with you. I love you. He twisted the gold band that sat on the third finger of his left hand. And he smiled.
~
We hope you enjoyed this book.
And if you haven’t already read the other stories in Amanda Prowse’s gripping No Greater Love sequence, read on or click the links below for previews of…
What Have I Done?
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Amanda Prowse
About the No Greater Love sequence
An invitation from the publisher
What Have I Done? — Preview
Read on for the first chapter of
The heart-wrenching story of one woman’s life after she kills the husband who abused her.
I will gather up all the little pieces that you have chipped away, hidden in drawers, swept under the carpet and shoved behind cushions and I will rebuild myself. I will become all of the things that I thought I might. All the dreams I considered before you broke me, I will chase them all.
Ten years ago
Kathryn Brooker watched the life slip from him, convinced she saw the black spirit snake out of his body and disappear immediately through the floor, spiralling down and down. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. She had expected euphoria or at the very least relief. What she couldn’t have predicted was the numbness that now enveloped her. Picturing her children sleeping next door, she closed her eyes and wished for them a deep and peaceful rest, knowing it would be the last they would enjoy for some time. As ever, consideration of what was best for her son and daughter was only a thought away.
The room felt quite empty despite the blood-soaked body lying centrally on the bed. The atmosphere was peaceful, the temperature just right.
Kathryn registered the smallest flicker of disappointment; she had expected to feel more.
Having changed into jeans and a jersey, she calmly stood by the side of the bed on which her husband’s pale corpse lay. With great deliberation and for the first time in her life, she dialled 999. It felt surreal to put into practice the one act that she had mentally rehearsed for as long as she could remember, although in her imagination the emergency had always been a child with a broken leg or a fire in a neighbouring empty building, nothing too dramatic.
‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘Oh, hello, yes, I’m not too sure which service I require.’
‘You are not sure?’
‘I think probably the police or ambulance, maybe both. Sorry. As I said, I’m not too sure…’
‘Can I ask you what it is in connection with, madam?’
‘Oh, right, yes, of course. I have just murdered my husband.’
‘I’m sorry, you have what? This is a terrible line.’
‘Oh, I know. I’m sorry, I’ll try and speak up a bit. It’s always a terrible connection from here, even if I’m phoning someone locally. It’s because I am up in the main bedroom and the reception is very bad. My son thinks it may be because of all the big trees around us; we did cut them right back one year, but I can’t remember if it made any difference. Plus we get interference from the computers in the next building; we’ve been meaning to get it looked at, but that’s by the by. Right, yes. I said, I have murdered my husband.’
* * *
Kathryn blinked at the humming strip light that winked overhead; the bulb needed to be replaced. It was a distraction that could easily become annoying.
‘Did you do it?’
Roland Gearing rested his weight on splayed fingers, his hands forming little pyramids that, incredibly, supported his muscular frame as he leant over the table. He lowered his voice an octave; this was the one question he knew he had to ask and yet he was fearful of her response.
‘Did I do it?’
‘Yes, Kathryn, did you?’
He held her gaze, hoping to instil trust, trying to tease out the honest answer. He knew a lot about lying and relied on his gut instinct. Years on the job had taught him to monitor the interviewee’s pupils carefully.
‘It’s a question that I wouldn’t normally ask quite so early in proceedings, but as your friend – as Mark’s friend too – I feel I have to. Is that okay?’
‘Yes, yes of course. I understand.’
She gave a fleeting smile as her index finger and thumb looped her hair behind her left ear and then her right.
Her calm composure rattled him; there was none of the hysteria or fear that usually characterised these encounters. Women in similar situations were often almost insane with terror, rage or the dread of injustice. Kathryn, however, appeared placid.
She remembered her husband’s glassy eyes. The way his fingers slipped and missed as they struggled with an invisible tourniquet that stopped the breath in his throat. Her nose wrinkled; her nostrils still carried the faintest trace of the iron stench of Mark’s seeping blood. It had repulsed and comforted her in equal measure. It was as if she could taste it at the back of her throat. She hadn’t sought to ease his discomfort in his dying moments, nor had she offered any words of solace. She had in fact smiled, as though he would manage, was still the strong, capable man who could cut wood, paint walls and raise a hand.
She may have even hummed, as though she wasn’t hovering, desperate to witness the demise that would mean the end of the whole sordid chapter. When she had spoken, her tone had been nonchalant.
‘Take your time. I’ve got hours, nowhere to go and a whole lifetime ahead of me. A promise is a promise.’
Her flippant pragmatism hid a heart that groaned with relief.
‘I haven’t got long.’
His voice had been a waning whisper. His final words coasted on fragmented last breaths.
‘Too slow, painful. You’ll pay.’
She mentally erased the words before he had finished. She would not share, recount or remember them.
‘Oh, Mark, I have already paid.’
Bending low, with her face inches from his, she breathed the fetid air that he exhaled, sharing the small space where life lingered until the very end. Kathryn marvelled at the capacity for human animals to cling to the ‘now’. It was quite impressive, fascinating even, despite the obvious futility.
‘Yes. Yes, I did it, Roland. It was me. Me alone.’
There was a hint of pride in her admission, as if she were commenting on an achievement. Roland found it most disconcerting. He shook his head. Dis
belief clouded everything, even after having seen and heard her confession. He looked at the neat, middle-aged woman with the pretty face sitting opposite him. The same woman who had handed him canapés on doily-decorated platters, served him percolated coffee and proffered homemade cake. The facts would simply not compute. She had been married to Mark Brooker, a man that he liked and admired. A man he had trusted with the education of his only daughter.
Roland exhaled slowly and scratched his chin where his stubble was at its most irritating. The hot, stress-filled environment of the interview room did nothing to help his sensitive skin. He wanted to go home and shower. Better still, he wanted to rewind the day and not pick up the 3 a.m. call that would disturb his family’s rest and destroy the community as he knew it.
Kathryn sensed his irritation, knowing he was the sort of man who cherished his sleep. She pictured him at home earlier that evening, enjoying sea bream with steamed vegetables and a chilled white, after having spent an hour in the gym, maintaining that flat stomach. Neither could have guessed that his Sabbath would have ended like this, with him facing her across the table inside Finchbury police station at this ungodly hour, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
‘Are you sure you want to talk to me?’ he prompted.
His jacket fell open, revealing the hot-pink silk lining of his handmade suit. She imagined his fellow police officers taking the mick, but knew enough about Roland and the care he took with his appearance to realise that he wouldn’t pay them any heed. He would never be seen in the cheap, crumpled brands that some of his contemporaries wore. Kathryn recalled a conversation she had overheard between him and Mark in which he’d lamented the loss of his uniform, an inevitable consequence of climbing the ranks and becoming chief inspector. He had taken such pleasure in polishing buttons, shining boots and removing specks of lint from the wool of his tunic. She watched as he ran his palm over his abs, clearly enjoying the feel of himself against the inside of a crisp, white shirt.
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