ALSO BY JANELLE HARRIS
Under Lying
See Me Not
No Kiss Goodbye
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 © 2020 by Janelle Harris
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: 9781542004954
ISBN-10: 1542004950
Cover design by Dominic Forbes
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Beware of jealousy for verily it destroys good deeds the way fire destroys wood
—Muhammad
Prologue
THE IRISH INFORMER
13TH MAY 2000
MISSING TEENAGER IN DUBLIN
Gardaí in Westrow are appealing for the public’s help in locating a missing 18-year-old. Gillian Buckley is a 6th-year student at St Peter’s boarding school. She is the daughter of the renowned businessman and philanthropist, Andrew Buckley.
Gillian is described as 5’6’’ and of slim build, with green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair. Gillian was last seen in the school library yesterday afternoon and she was wearing her St Peter’s school uniform: a navy jumper with crest, white blouse and a navy and grey tartan skirt.
Principal at St Peter’s, Mr Martin McEvoy, said: ‘We have serious concerns for Gillian’s welfare. Gillian is a popular and happy pupil in our school. It is most unlike her to miss class or not to phone home regularly.’
Gardaí ask anyone with information to please contact Westrow Garda Station on 01 64737266 or the Garda Confidential Telephone Line on 0807 888 111, or call into any Garda station.
Chapter One
DARCY
Monday 10 June 2019
Jinx, my fluffy white Bichon Frise, is tucked under my arm. My other hand is curled around my husband’s – my fingers knitted between his – as we stand outside a large, revolving door at the television studio. The grey-brick building is the biggest among many others set in private and secure grounds. Every building bears the national broadcaster’s logo above the door and there’s little to differentiate one building from the other, except for size. After a couple of false starts I hope we’ve finally found the main reception.
‘A penny for them?’ Luke asks.
‘Hmm?’ I say, distracted.
‘What are you thinking, honey?’
‘Oh erm . . .’
‘I know you’re nervous,’ Luke says.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask, stroking my thumb under Jinx’s ear, just the way he likes it. His tail wags.
Luke laughs. ‘Well, if you hold my hand any tighter, I think you’re going to cut off my circulation.’
‘Oh.’ I glance at my hand wrapped tightly around my husband’s. My knuckles are white and shaking. ‘Sorry,’ I say, as I let go and realise how clammy my palm is when the cool air hits it. ‘I’m just feeling the pressure a little. We need this to go well so badly. Airtime like this is invaluable. Especially at the moment. And—’
‘And you’ve got this,’ Luke says, reaching for my hand again and slipping his fingers between mine. ‘Do you remember when you were Rizzo in our school play?’
‘It’s hard to believe that was twenty years ago. I remember it so well,’ I say.
‘You stole the whole show,’ Luke says. ‘Everyone in St Peter’s was asking “Sandy who?”’
I blush. ‘That’s not quite how I remember it.’
‘You were amazing,’ he says. ‘And you’re going to be amazing again today. People are going to love you as much as I do.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling as I finally pluck up enough courage to lead us through the doors and into the main reception.
I introduce myself at the desk. ‘Good morning. I’m Darcy Hogan. I’m a guest on Good Morning, Ireland today.’
‘Go through the doors behind me.’ The receptionist points over her shoulder without turning her head. ‘I’ll buzz you in now.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, as the security door makes a loud clinking sound and I cross my fingers behind my back and hope this all goes as well as Luke and I desperately need it to.
The hustle and bustle on the other side of the door is a stark contrast to the calm and silent reception.
‘Oh good, you’re here,’ a young woman with a clipboard and headset says, draping her arm over my shoulder and guiding me down a long corridor. ‘Oh. And a puppy too,’ she adds, seeming less excited to see Jinx. ‘We were beginning to worry you’d got cold feet.’
‘I’m so sorry we’re late,’ I say. ‘We got a little lost.’ I leave out the part about having to pull over on the side of the motorway – twice – so I could be sick, and then it was almost impossible to pull back into the manic morning traffic.
‘No worries. You’re here now,’ she says, as we step into a brightly lit dressing room. ‘I don’t think people realise that although the show starts at 8 a.m. everyone has been here for hours beforehand prepping.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘I like mornings.’
It’s true. I am an early bird. Always have been. I get up most mornings at 6, sometimes 5.30. I like to get a walk in before work. I’m usually just arriving home after 8 kilometres when Luke is getting up, and we drive to the factory together. We’re always in our office or on the floor by 8 a.
m. at the latest. But for the last couple of months, Luke has usually left for work before I even manage to open my eyes.
‘Is that something important?’ the clipboard lady asks, pointing at the book tucked under Luke’s arm.
‘It’s my new recipe book,’ I say, excitedly. ‘It’s not out for a couple of months yet—’
‘And you don’t want to miss an opportunity to plug it. I getcha,’ she says, winking. ‘C’mon.’ She places a hand on Luke’s shoulder as she guides him towards the door. ‘I’ll show you where to leave it.’
I’m alone only for a matter of seconds when there’s a gentle knock on the door, followed by a cheery voice. ‘Hello, hello, hello. Is it okay to come in?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I say, recognising the distinctive lilt. ‘Come on in.’
The door creaks open and Lindsay St Claire’s head appears in the gap. Her golden hair is in curlers and she isn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, but she is still stunning. And I wonder if my inner fangirling over my favourite TV presenter is noticeable.
‘Welcome to Good Morning, Ireland. I’m so glad you’re here, Darcy.’ She smiles, flashing her dazzlingly white teeth.
‘Thank you,’ I say, bubbles of nervous excitement fizzing in my veins. ‘I’m glad to be here, at last.’
‘And you’re welcome too, Mr Fluffy,’ Lindsay says, stroking a sleepy Jinx’s head. Without opening his eyes he nuzzles into her hand, letting her know he loves her gentle touch.
I introduce my beloved puppy. ‘This is Jinx.’
‘Gosh, you’re just gorgeous, aren’t you?’ Lindsay says, putting on that squeaky voice that people use sometimes when they’re talking to animals or babies. ‘Aren’t you a good boy? You are. Yes, you are.’
‘Thank you for having me on the show,’ I say, but I don’t think Lindsay is listening. She’s petting Jinx and smiling and cooing.
Lindsay’s team has been inviting me on air for months – ever since I won Businesswoman of the Year. And for months I have politely declined. Marketing and publicity is my top concern, but we’re an eco-friendly business – flashy awards and morning television shows aren’t exactly in keeping with our carbon-footprint-conscious image. Besides, it’s almost impossible to sing the praises of Darcy’s Dishes without sounding as if I think I’m special. I don’t. I work damn hard and I’ve been lucky, too. That’s all. But Lindsay has made no effort to hide her disappointment at my reluctance.
‘I’m not giving up, you know,’ she joked each time.
And she didn’t. When Lindsay called last week, her confidence radiated down the phone. There was no doubt that she’d finally come up with an offer I couldn’t refuse.
‘Please be my guest and talk about how hard this pregnancy has been for you. Help other women know they’re not alone,’ she said, sincerely.
As soon as I sighed and said I’d think about it, Lindsay knew she had me.
I’d foolishly used my condition to wriggle out of her previous invite. Hyperemesis Gravidarum is torture. I’ve been in and out of hospital like a yo-yo. Lindsay was sympathetic and understanding. Too understanding, because now she wants me to comfort other women in the same boat.
Hanging up the phone, I was as dubious as ever, but Luke, on the other hand, couldn’t contain his excitement when I told him.
‘Do it for me . . . I’ve always wanted to sleep with a celebrity.’ He laughed, but I know it’s not a joke. My husband has an unhealthy obsession with Reese Witherspoon. He’s fancied the pants off her since we were teenagers. I think that’s what he fancies about me. Everyone says I’m a dead ringer for her.
But, Reese’s looks or not, the timing has never been right for a TV appearance. Not until now.
‘It’s publicity that money can’t buy,’ Luke said.
I explained that money was my concern. Darcy’s Dishes is up to its neck in debt. Staffing cost are ever increasing, but orders are down. We’re struggling like never before.
‘How can I go on national television and pretend everything is fine? I’m not an actress. Or a liar. The public will see straight through me,’ I said, terrified.
‘You’re a star, honey,’ Luke said. ‘Businesswoman of the Year.’
His words ring in my ears now as I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t deserve to be Businesswoman of the Year. Not when my business is failing.
Lindsay must notice my jitters as she finally pulls her attention away from Jinx and says, ‘Someone will be in to you shortly to do your hair and make-up.’ She points to her own hair.
‘Oh. I didn’t realise.’ I glance at the mirror, taking in my full face of make-up and my hair that I spent ages straightening this morning at silly o’clock when I could barely keep my eyes open.
‘You look great,’ Lindsay says, ‘but studio lights are no one’s friend. We usually go a couple of shades darker than normal. Even the male presenters wear bronzer. Don’t worry if you feel a bit over made-up. It will look fab on camera, I promise.’
‘Erm, okay.’
‘And Berta from fashion will be around to you shortly. She is a genius. I just know you’re going to love the dress she’s chosen for you.’
‘Oh that’s okay,’ I say, running my hands over the black, maternity business suit I’ve been itching for a chance to wear. ‘I’m very comfortable in this.’
I can see Lindsay taking a deep breath, and she hums before speaking. ‘And you look a-ma-zing in that chic suit. Every inch the businesswoman, which of course you are. But we’re hoping for something a little more fitted. Show off that precious belly.’
‘Belly,’ I say.
‘Absolutely. Viewers love to see a glowing mama-to-be.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Don’t be shy,’ Lindsay cuts across me. ‘You’re all bump, not a pick of pregnancy weight on you. It must be the vegan diet. You’ll have to give me some tips after the show.’
‘I do have some recipes to share.’ I smile. ‘My husband has actually just gone to give them to your research assistant.’
‘Very exciting,’ Lindsay says, but she doesn’t sound excited. ‘Now, I just want to check if there are any personal questions you’d like me to avoid.’
The question catches me off guard and I wonder if my expression tells Lindsay as much.
‘Some people don’t like talking about their childhood,’ she explains. ‘Or relationships and marriages can sometimes—’
I gather my thoughts and interrupt her. ‘I’d rather not discuss my personal life at all.’
‘Ah,’ Lindsay nods. ‘Gotcha. Say no more. It can’t be easy working and living together. We’ll keep all questions focused on the baby.’
I’m about to reiterate that I don’t want to discuss anything personal when Luke walks in. ‘Excuse me, Ms St Claire, the lady with the clipboard and headset is looking for you,’ he says.
Lindsay rolls her eyes and exhales loudly. ‘Excuse me, won’t you.’
‘She’s amazing, isn’t she?’ Luke says, when she’s walked out.
‘Um . . .’ I sigh. ‘I have a bad feeling about today. Maybe this was all a terrible idea.’
‘That’s just the nerves talking,’ Luke reassures me. ‘You are going to be great. And some day our little girl will watch this back and be as proud of you as I am.’
Chapter Two
TINA
Monday 10 June 2019
The curtains are drawn as I sit on the bed flicking through television stations, not particularly paying attention to what’s on. My compact bedsit always seems even smaller with the curtains closed. They’re top-quality blackout ones. Floral, in autumn colours, and certainly not my taste. But the landlord was chuffed with himself when he arrived with them tucked under his arm a couple of months ago.
‘They’ll give you a little extra privacy,’ Vinny said. ‘And they’ll keep the heat in. They’re thick, they are.’
‘Great. Thank you,’ I said, humouring him.
This place
is a sweet deal and we both know it. The rent is a steal and in return Vinny knows I’ll take care of the place and not cause any trouble. It’s nestled in an old part of town; a linear stream of rundown bungalows with some recently refurbished and divided into bedsits. This area of Dublin once had community spirit and hard-working people at its core. Now, less so. There’s a bunch of twenty-something lads crammed into the bungalow to my left. Their souped-up cars and tracksuit bottoms do little to disguise their drug-dealing habits. But, it’s small-time peddling – they use more than they sell. It’s the couple at the end of the road with the fancy Mercedes and friends stopping by at all hours whom I’m wary of.
An elderly couple live on my right. The Simmons. A kind man and his ailing wife. I try to help them out once in a while. Carry some groceries in, pop in for a chat and a cup of tea, that sort of thing. But nonetheless, it’s hard to fit in in a place where it’s obvious I don’t belong.
I hit mute on the TV remote and cock my ear towards the door, thinking I hear the doorbell. It dings again. I pull myself off my bed, and pins and needles attack my toes after spending too long curled up with my feet tucked under me.
‘Just a minute,’ I say, panicked.
I grab the cash, piled high on the kitchen table, and shove it down the side of the couch. The lady in the bank looked at me as if I had two heads when I withdrew it all in a single lump sum last week, pretty much clearing out my account.
‘And can I ask why such a large transaction today?’
I glared at her.
‘For security reasons,’ the nosey cow added.
Stating the obvious, I said, ‘I’m buying something.’
‘Right.’ She smiled and gave me my money. Highlighting how stupid the whole conversation was in the first place.
The doorbell rings again.
‘Hello. Heeelllooo. Tina, I know you’re in there. I heard the telly.’
‘I’m coming. I said I’m coming.’
I glance over my shoulder and give my pokey living space the once-over. Convinced everything looks as it should, I open the door.
‘Good morning,’ I say, unsurprised to find my landlord on my doorstep.
‘Um. Yeah,’ he says, stepping past me without an invite. ‘Good morning.’
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