PROLOGUE
I can’t remember the last time I was out past sunrise. And now my heart is beating hard as I creep guiltily into our house.
‘Carly! Where have you been?’ My husband appears before me, looking aghast.
I tell him where I’ve spent the night.
‘For God’s sake,’ he thunders. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’
Quite possibly, yes.I wince at the volume of his voice. Does he always talk so loud? ‘I didn’t plan it,’ I start. ‘It just sort of happened, Frank. Can we talk later? I have to get ready for work …’ I hurry upstairs, but he catches up with me on the landing.
‘Carly, what’s going on with you?’
‘I need a shower,’ I announce, relieved to be able to close and bolt the bathroom door. But when I emerge, swathed in a towel, Frank is waiting. He looks distraught now, and I’m hit by a rush of remorse.
‘Frank, I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘With everything that’s been happening here, it just got too much. I had to get away, only for a little while—’
‘Is our home really so terrible to you?’
‘No! Of course it’s not …’Actually, yes. Yes, it is!
In our bedroom, I dress quickly and head downstairs with Frank still in pursuit. We can’t even talk because my dad is installed at the kitchen table, and Eddie – our son – is moaning about something or other; I don’t even know what it is. There’s an altercation between him and his dad, and it strikes me that we’re really not designed to all live together – isn’t that why adult children leave home? Then something is happening and I can’t quite believe it’s real. Frank is hastily packing a bag.
I stare at him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve had enough. I can’t stand it here anymore.’
Minutes later he’s out the front door, with the bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Frank!’ I shout. ‘Please—’ I break off. As he storms off down the street, away from us all, a single thought rings loud and clear in my head.
Frank and I have fantasised about being empty-nesters.It’ll be our time,we kept telling ourselves. And we couldn’t wait.
How has it turned out like this?
Chapter One
Six months earlier: January
Living at Kilmory Cottage: Carly, Frank, Eddie
Carly
My son is lying on the sofa as I make my approach.
Be casual,I tell myself.Keep it light.The open Quality Street tin rests on his stomach, and a few gleaming wrappers are scattered around on the floor.
‘Eddie?’ I start.
‘What?’ He jolts, as if electrocuted.
‘I saw this job advertised. I thought you might want to—’
‘Not-qualified-for-it,’ he snaps.
I exhale slowly, trying to remain patient. ‘It’s not head of ICI, Eddie. It’s not Secretary-General of the United Nations. It’s just an admin assistant role with HMRC—’
‘What’s HMRC?’
