by Jane Corry
Jane Corry
* * *
I MADE A MISTAKE
Contents
PART ONE 1: Six weeks earlier
Central Criminal Court, London – Summer
2: Betty
3: Poppy
4: Betty
5: Poppy
6: Betty
7: Poppy
8: Betty
Central Criminal Court, London
9: Poppy
10: Betty
11: Poppy
12: Betty
13: Poppy
14: Betty
Central Criminal Court, London
15: Poppy
16: Betty
17: Poppy
18: Betty
19: Poppy
20: Betty
21: Poppy
22: Betty
Central Criminal Court, London
23: Poppy
24: Betty
25: Poppy
26: Betty
Central Criminal Court, London
27: Poppy
28: Betty
29: Poppy
30: Betty
31: Poppy
32: Betty
33: Poppy
34: Betty
Central Criminal Court, London
From the Daily Mail
PART TWO 35: Poppy
36: Betty
37: Poppy
38: Betty
39: Poppy
40: Betty
41: Poppy
42: Betty
43: Poppy
44: Betty
45: Poppy
46: Betty
47: Poppy
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Jane Corry is a former magazine journalist who spent three years working as the writer-in-residence of a high security prison for men. This often hair-raising experience helped inspire her Sunday Times-bestselling psychological thrillers, My Husband’s Wife, Blood Sisters, The Dead Ex and I Looked Away, which have been published in more than 35 countries. Jane was a tutor in creative writing at Oxford University and is a regular contributor to the Daily Telegraph and My Weekly magazine.
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT
I MADE A MISTAKE
‘Excellent book … I would read more from this author without hesitation’ ★★★★★
‘This is one of Jane Corry’s best’ ★★★★★
‘Wow wow wow. Absolutely loved this book’ ★★★★★
‘Another emotional rollercoaster from Jane Corry’ ★★★★★
‘Thrilling and enthralling, this is a must-read for any thriller fan’ ★★★★★
‘Well worth 5 humongous stars!’ ★★★★★
‘Thought-provoking, moving and a fantastic read’ ★★★★★
‘I absolutely loved this book … an addictive read’ ★★★★★
‘I cannot wait for the next Jane Corry novel’ ★★★★★
‘The characters were fascinating … A great, enthralling read’ ★★★★★
‘The ending is stunning’ ★★★★★
‘What a clever plot! What a good read!’ ★★★★★
‘Fabulously written and such a twisty tale’ ★★★★★
‘Kept me on the edge of my seat!’ ★★★★★
‘A must-read book. If you haven’t read a Jane Corry book then you are missing out’ ★★★★★
‘Oh my word, another masterpiece from Jane Corry!’ ★★★★★
This book is dedicated to my ever-supportive husband,
my children and my grandchildren.
They help me to keep life in perspective.
Always remembering my mother.
Waterloo Underground Station, Platform 3 – January; early evening
MIND THE GAP scream the yellow capital letters on the edge of the platform. But not everyone can see the writing on the danger zone. Only the passengers at the very front who are being pushed by those at the back, centimetre by centimetre, further and further towards the empty track. It’s a bit like one of those coin machines in an amusement arcade, where you just need to shove a few more pennies in to send the whole lot tumbling.
At least there’s a Help button on the wall. But how fast can you get to it in an emergency, surrounded by a crowd like this? Maybe not fast enough.
It is 6.30 p.m. Rush hour. Platform 3 for the Bakerloo Line from Waterloo to Queen’s Park is teeming. Commuters, taut and grey after a day in the office, gaze yearningly at the white-sand poster for Mauritius on the other side of the line. (GO ON! TAKE A SPRING BREAK!) A woman with flamingo-pink acrylic nails opens her briefcase as if to check something and then snaps it shut. A man whips off his yellow tie before stuffing it in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. A couple in black are in fervent discussion about ‘the deceased’ and the ‘court case’. Lawyers or funeral mourners? Tricky to tell. Either way, neither will forget this day.
A musician with a cello is humming quietly. She does not know it but a piece of chewing gum has stuck to her shoe. Only when she returns home that night – shocked and barely able to speak – will she find it. By then, it will seem irrelevant compared with the tragedy she will have witnessed.
A middle-aged Japanese couple, almost dwarfed by their giant silver metallic suitcases, observe their surroundings with confusion. The man is rifling through his shoulder bag as if looking for something. If only they had been somewhere else, there might have been a very different ending to their holiday.
A bleary-eyed student nurses a Starbucks cup. And amidst them all, a young woman is holding up a plastic-wrapped cream wedding dress as if to keep it creaseless from the mob around her.
The stale air tastes of booze, frustration, routine and expectation.
A message flashes up on the board. Train approaching.
Where will the doors open? Here there are no sliding glass panels for safety, as on the Jubilee Line. The favoured few who had found respite on the metallic rows of seats lining the walls leap up, upset to find themselves trapped at the back of the throng. Later they will count their blessings.
‘Mind the gap, please!’ exhorts the pre-recorded announcement. The male voice, with its emphasis on the last word, carries just the right balance of courtesy and warning.
No excuse now.
There is a rush of air as the train nears the station. More last-minute arrivals from the back surge forward, hoping to grab a spot even though they should, by rights, wait for the next. Greed can kill. They will learn that soon enough.
The train is in sight now. Speeding closer. Minds are set on the preparation to pounce, jostle shoulders, squeeze through somehow. How on earth will the Japanese couple manage with those enormous cases?
Apprehension is tight. Knuckles clench. Everyone is determined to board, whatever it takes. There are children to meet. Partners. Cats. Lovers. First dates. Work shifts. Flights that can’t be missed. Brace for the race.
Then it happens.
Did the victim cry out? Hard to know with the thunder of the train and the screech of its brakes as it tries to stop in time. ‘Mind the gap, please,’ repeats the disembodied announcement in oblivious irony. There’s a split-second of horrified silence. Then a woman screams.
Part One
* * *
1
Six weeks earlier
Poppy
‘Poppy! How are you?’
My heart fills with love and pride as an enormous orange-and-black striped tiger bounds up and flings her arms around me.
‘Jennifer!’ I say, hugging her back. I know that as an agent I shouldn’t have favourite clients but there’s something so warm and endearing about this one that I simply can’t help it.
She also has a habit of speaking in capital letters to convey her infectious enthusiasm, which I find rather sweet. ‘Talk about a posh hotel!’ she purrs, gazing around, her eyes wide. ‘I’ve never been in a ballroom before! And those prawn canapés are to DIE for.’
This place is pretty swanky with its rose silk curtains, glittering chandeliers and ceiling frescos, even if it is a bit further out from London than the previous parties. Everyone who is anyone is here; either because they are ‘supporting artistes’ (also known as extras) who hope to be noticed or because they’re connected to the industry like me and need to network. Reputation, recognition and reliability are the three big Rs in this business. And I try very hard to tick all the boxes. My job is to supply casting directors with the ordinary man in the newsagent queue in front of the lead actor; the woman who pushes an empty pram down a street just before an explosion; the child who cycles past a robbery on his bike and carries on without mishap. The sort of person you might not even notice when you’re glued to the screen but who makes the action seem normal. It’s quite a challenge. But I love it!
I almost didn’t get here tonight after that disagreement with the girls over their homework. Melissa and Daisy – aged seventeen and fourteen respectively – used to adore each other but they’re currently going through a tricky argumentative stage. Perhaps it’s because they’re so different, inside and out. Melissa has my husband’s glossy raven hair from his father’s side with the lofty height to go with it. Daisy, with her auburn curls, is more like the old me: small and slightly dumpy with a shy smile that hides the feistiness underneath. She still believes in magic. When she wants something, she turns her pillow over three times ‘for luck’.
I try hard to reason with them like you’re meant to, according to my well-thumbed How to Bring Up a Teenager book, but they just don’t seem to listen. At times, it breaks my heart. I’d have given anything to have had a sister for company at their age. As the years go by, I find that longing growing even stronger. It would be so good just to confide in someone …
If it wasn’t for my mother-in-law, helping me to ‘steer the ship’, as she puts it, I don’t know what I’d do. Betty is warm, loving, a brilliant gran and wonderfully eccentric, with her passion for one hobby after another. One moment it’s making jewellery out of tin lids; the next it’s tap dancing. She’s also stylish, with a sweet, heart-shaped face that suits her trademark purple berets, which she often wears inside the house as well as out of it. (I suspect she does so to hide her thinning hair, which, according to family photos, used to be light brown until she dyed it blonde in her twenties. Now it’s silver.) Betty adores the girls and the feeling is mutual. She’s the mother I never had. At least for as long as I care to remember.
It was Betty’s idea that I set up the Poppy Page Extra Agency from home after Melissa was born, using my married surname because the alliteration made it sound memorable. For some time back then, I’d been to countless auditions for all kinds of minor roles but hadn’t been recalled to any. Not even one. I had to face facts. My career as an actress was over before it had even begun.
‘Women like you need something else as well as looking after a family,’ Betty told me. ‘Trust me. I can tell.’
She was right. How lucky I am to have a mother-in-law like her! I sometimes think she’s the glue that holds us all together. Yet on darker days, I fear that without her we might just fall apart.
‘And LOOK!’ continues Jennifer, bouncing up and down next to me. ‘There’s that Doris Day lookalike who was in the shampoo ad. Isn’t she one of your clients too?’
‘Yes,’ I say proudly. ‘She is.’ I wave across the room to a stunning seventy-five-year-old former supermarket cashier who used to be teased mercilessly for looking like the original Doris until she spotted a magazine article about being an extra. Then she made a note of the ‘useful numbers’ at the end and rang me. ‘Do you think I’m too old?’ she’d asked.
‘You’re just beginning,’ I’d told her. Now she’s actually changed her name by deed poll to Doris Days. ‘I know the real one didn’t have an “s”,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t want to mislead people.’
Age is no boundary in this business, as I am always assuring clients. You don’t need an Equity card, even if you have a speaking role. It’s possible to earn a steady income if you get a good name simply by being available at short notice, turning up on time at the right place in the right clothes, not pestering the stars for an autograph or – as one of my clients kept doing until I was forced to take her off my books – constantly walking in front of big-name stars to hog the camera! But it’s not really about the money. It’s the thrill of being onscreen, even if it’s for a blink-and-you-miss-it second.
‘You know,’ says Jennifer chummily, threading a velvet paw through my arm. ‘If it wasn’t for you, none of us would be here.’
I flush with pleasure. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Nor did I inherit my business from Mummy or Daddy, like one or two of the agents here. I’ve had to work long and hard to get where I am but it’s been worth it. My agency is doing pretty well, financially speaking, and we’ve really built a name for ourselves. Recently, one of the industry magazines did a two-page ‘Casting Agency of the Month’ profile on me.
‘Very nice,’ was all Stuart said when I showed him. He’d been engrossed in some dental article about mandibular jaws at the time, so was probably only half listening.
It’s OK. I’m used to it. Stuart lives for his work. Besides, the real reward is helping my clients, many of whom have become good friends, to fulfil their dreams. But every now and then, I can’t help feeling a teeny bit jealous that I never made it as an actress myself. I could have done it. I know I could. If only things had been different.
Meanwhile, my clients’ successes have now made me a ‘name’ in the business. It might not be what I had in mind all those years ago. But it’s a pretty good second-best.
‘I couldn’t do it without you and the others,’ I say, giving Jennifer’s paw a pat.
‘Actually,’ she replies, lowering her voice just a fraction, ‘I’ve been dying to ask if there was any news on you-know-what.’
She is referring to a zoo film that’s about to be made by a certain production company. (They want to use actors in costume rather than special effects or real animals.) I’ve already put Jennifer up for it but am still waiting to hear back.
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘But I’m sure it won’t be long.’
‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed – or should I say claws!’ She guffaws out loud at her own joke, slapping my back. ‘Sorry,’ she says, wincing. ‘When I’m dressed up like this, I can’t help getting into character. By the way, is it true that that actor is here? You know, the one who played the gorgeous vicar in that show?’
‘Which show?’ I ask while noticing another client across the room. Jennifer has a truly remarkable memory and is forever bringing up actors who nobody else remembers, as though they were A-list stars.
‘Oh you know, what was it called … THAT’S IT! Peter’s Paradise. And the actor was Matthew Gordon.’
I start. My skin goosebumps. ‘Matthew Gordon?’ I repeat, incredulous.
Jennifer is looking at me with an odd expression, Swiftly, I try to pass off my shock. ‘Wow! That was years ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She seems, thank goodness, to accept the reason for my reaction. ‘Well, apparently Ronnie …’
She stops, cut off by a sharp tap on my shoulder that makes me turn round.
‘Poppy! Don’t you look wonderful.’ Sharon is one of my rivals who has never particularly liked me since a male client of mine got a plum walk-on role that she’d been after for
someone on her own books. ‘Black leather trousers. Very cool.’
‘Actually, they’re my eldest daughter’s,’ I say. ‘I was rather pleased they fitted me.’ Too late I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Sharon isn’t exactly svelte. From the look on her face, she’s taken my comment as a dig at her own ample figure whereas in fact I was simply admitting the truth. I couldn’t decide what to wear tonight until Melissa really surprised me by offering to lend me the new trousers I had recently bought for her. They were a bit long as my daughter is taller than I am, so I had to fold them back into turn-ups. Luckily, these were hidden inside my black suede boots. ‘Wow, Mum,’ she’d said, leading me to the mirror. ‘They look amazing on you.’
This hadn’t always been the case. At the time when I still had hopes of the stage, one of the directors I’d auditioned with had described me as ‘Little Miss Dumpy’ to my agent. (I’d found this out through another girl on her books who had taken great delight in telling me.) It has to be said that my optimism for an acting career had been prompted by encouragement from my parents and school, rather than my five foot two and a half inches of average looks. My main assets, looks-wise, or so I’ve been told, were and are my glossy auburn hair, which curls naturally on the nape of my neck, plus my permanent smile, whatever the weather. ‘Poppy,’ Mum used to say to me when I was growing up. ‘You were born with a naturally sunny disposition like me. That’s a gift. Make the most of it.’
She certainly had. But you’re not her, I remind myself. You’re you.
If my mother were here now, she’d see that, by a stroke of luck, I’ve turned into one of those women who look better in their forties than they did in their twenties. My once podgy looks in the acting world have slimmed into a ‘sexily curvy body’, according to one roving-eyed casting producer who made it clear that he was interested in me from a very non-platonic point of view. Naturally, I’d brushed him off.