The colours are changing again. I don’t have long. If I’m going to do it, I need to do it soon.
The name of the artery appears in my head: carotid. A word so like carrots. Which give me hiccups. As they did to Mother. And Ellie. One of the things that run through us all like Whitby rock.
Ellie, I think. I love you. And I stab him in the neck with the glass.
64
Two little girls. One in her bed, one on her feet. Both petite and blonde. Hair like candyfloss. Skinny legs. They move as lightly as birds as they jump up and down to greet a night-time visitor. No wonder they were rushed away from me every time I got close. Perhaps it occurred to Dickie even before he spotted the webbed toes. It would have become clear to anyone who knew and loved Ellie. The truth is pushing its way through – weaving itself into their hair, on their faces.
I look at my nieces. My eyes drink them in. I have missed them every day of their lives.
Rose. A pair of Roses.
The one on her feet wrinkles her nose. ‘Where’s Mumma?’
I have locked the door to the games room in anticipation of this question. I’ve also called the police, washed my face in the kitchen sink and put my coat over my blood-soaked clothes. I’m grateful now that I recorded everything on my phone. I’m not sure how much it picked up, but hopefully it will make explaining everything easier.
When I called Caroline, she was on her way, frantic. She should be here soon. I can tell her everything then.
I suppose I could have left the children in their nursery until the police arrived. I could have waited to see them.
No, I couldn’t.
‘Who are you?’ asks the braver Rose. The one on her feet.
‘I’m your mummy’s sister.’
She looks unsure, glancing at her twin for confirmation.
I reach out to touch her hair. Golden wisps like smoke. Like something that could disappear. I’m not greedy; I just want to stroke one curl – to know the feel of it beneath my fingertips, as soft and light as Ellie’s hair was. There is so much I want to ask them; there is so much I want to know.
Do they have any memory of her at all, buried deep? Her smell? The sound of her voice? When did she leave them? When was she erased? Is there ever a day, sitting on Fiona’s lap, when they remember another mother?
I spot The Velveteen Rabbit on the bookshelf and go to get it. ‘Do you want to read this?’ I ask them. ‘It’s a story about real love.’
I don’t know why, but, as we wait for the police, I think of the power of three. That’s what we had – Mother, Ellie and me. Three makes a shape in the way that one never can. Or even two. But three – that’s a story.
I should learn to be wary of such things. In my desperation for them, I missed everything important. Charles was my favourite story. My happy ending. But I was so set on him that I missed who the heroes and villains were. I got everything upside down.
They are such good girls, Ellie. You would be so proud of them. They sit either side of me as I read the book. I think they enjoy it. They are so young still – not quite three. Young enough to start again, I hope.
As I read, I remember the patch under the weeping willow, where it’s always been warmer, where it never ices over. Was that your way of telling me? Was that what I was swimming towards?
‘I’m sorry I failed you,’ I say out loud, and I start to cry.
The braver Rose puts her hand in mine. ‘Everybody’s scared today,’ she says.
I think I can hear a car at the end of the drive and imagine for a second that it’s Charles coming home. But not Charles now – not the man upstairs, lying still – but Charles as a teenager, running along the rugby pitch. Charles saying, ‘You’re a legend, Fran.’ Charles leaping out of the car to tell us there has been a mistake.
But my ears are playing tricks on me – it’s just the sound of traffic in the distance. The police will be here soon.
I look at the children next to me and make a promise – this time one I can keep – that no one will ever hurt them. That I will keep them safe.
‘What are we doing?’ asks the quieter twin.
‘We’re going to sit here,’ I say to the girls who are not Rose, but also are. ‘And we’re going to wait.’
Acknowledgements
The idea for this book – and the birth of Fran – came from a conversation with one of my favourite people, Jeanie Cordy-Simpson. Jeanie and I were at boarding school together (very different from Chesterfield) and spent our teenage years with ill-advised crushes on boys who were completely unsuitable for us. These usually ended with us in tears in the loo at parties (not so different from Chesterfield). In the years since, I’ve thought a lot about the delusions and disappointments of obsessive romantic love – how we can get it so wrong and how much more the infatuation tends to say about the subject than the object of affection.
Conversations with other friends, old and new, formed the backbone of my research for this novel. I’m hugely grateful to the following for their patience and time: Emily and Sophie Hughes, Carole Mattock and Charlotte Rogerson. Thank you too to the wonderful team at Waterstones Abergavenny, in particular Cicely and Sol, who let me come in for a day of work-shadowing to jog my memory of my bookselling days. Thank you to Pete Small for answering lots of questions at what should have been a relaxing family gathering. To Dr John Carr and Miss Samantha Steele MRCOG for replying to endless messages (some during a pandemic, I might add) about birth registration, twins and scans. To Alison Thompson MBE, former coroner for west London, for responding to my queries about inquests so promptly and helpfully. And to Angus Cordy-Simpson for supplying detailed answers about the workings of a school rugby team. Any inaccuracies or wild leaps in imagination are entirely my responsibility.
Of course, none of it would have come to fruition without the team at Avon. What a wonderful, warm and supportive lot you are – and in the most difficult conditions on the run-up to publication. I was lucky enough to have not one but two incredible editors – my heartfelt thanks to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, who believed in You and Me from the beginning, and to Tilda McDonald, who worked tirelessly with me on the novel while Rachel was on maternity leave. Thank you too to the fabulous Sabah Khan – the best PR in publishing – and to Ellie Pilcher, Bethany Wickington, Helena Newton and every single person who has supported me in this project. Thank you also to Hannah Schofield, Alison Bonomi and the team at LBA Books, everyone at the Intercontinental Literary Agency and Emily Hayward-Whitlock at the Artists Partnership.
Huge thanks, as always, to my writing group: Saneh Arora, Conrad Stephenson and Adam Lively. Thank you, Sophie Rouhaud, for proofreading my French. And enormous thanks, too, to my early readers Nancy Alsop and Emma Bamford.
It’s been just over a year since my first novel, The Girl Before You, came out and in that time one of my favourite things has been meeting other authors – I’m so grateful for their warmth and support, mutual love of G&Ts, books and stories. Thank you, in particular, to Emma Curtis and my friends at the Psychological Suspense Authors’ Association; Tracy Buchanan and the Savvy Writers; and my ink sisters Sara Collins and Kate Weinberg.
Endless thanks and love to my family and friends, with a special mention for Jo Turner and Arabella Preston, who helped me to make important decisions such as which Nineties pin-ups should feature; May Steele and Jenny Wilkinson, most devoted of cheerleaders; and all of my friends at Dancing Times.
I seem to have written another book about siblings – thank you, Lucy, Sophie and Mark, for putting up with it and putting up with me. And to our indomitable mother who raised the four of us on her own; you are amazing. Thank you to the superstars that are Russell, Nora, Leonardo, Amélie, Buster and Chota. I love you all very much. Warmest thanks too to David George, Pierluca, Olav, Renitha, Carol and Matthew.
It probably says something that I’m thanking my agent, Louise Lamont, alongside my husband, but I think it’s only fair as they shoulder the burden of my author neur
oses more or less equally. Louise, saying thank you for everything you do never really seems like enough, but, all the same – and especially for bringing Babylon Berlin into my life – tausend dank! And, finally, all my love and thanks to England’s best person, Jason Draper, who is not at all like Charles.
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About the Author
Nicola Rayner was born in Abergavenny, South Wales, and works as a freelance journalist. The Girl Before You, her first novel, was picked by the Observer as a debut to look out for in 2019. It has been translated into multiple languages and has also been optioned for television. She lives in London with her husband and Jack Russell.
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