PROLOGUE
She is back there again, reliving the moment for what must be the hundredth time. She stares, in wide-eyed terror, the scene unfolding before her as she knows it must; step by step, just as before. She cries out, but her cries make no sound. Each time she revisits it she is desperate for a different ending. What could she have done to have made things turn out differently? But the ending never changes. And the guilt never changes. It was her fault.
She opens her eyes as her body jolts her into heart-racing, sweat-soaked consciousness. The balmy heat and the lingering scent of frangipani of her memories fade away. Replacing them are darkness and the cool night air of the place she now calls home. She breathes deeply, regaining her composure. With shaking hands, she reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. Moonlight spills in around the edges of the curtains and she can make out the gently swaying branches of the old oak tree in the garden. Before, it was the palm trees that swayed, but that was another time, another life. Somewhere, out there in the night, an owl hoots. It was just a dream, she reassures herself. Thank God, it was just a dream.
But still she cannot settle. She gets up and softly pads towards the door, avoiding the floorboard that creaks, and quietly opens it. Along the landing she creeps, compelled by instinct to check that all is as it should be. She pushes open anotherbedroom door and tiptoes towards the little bed. She smiles, watching the contented, innocent face of the sleeping child.
Feeling relieved, she makes her way back to her own room and climbs into bed. The steady breathing of the sleeping figure beside her reassures her that all is well. Nothing has changed. Nobody knows. Nobody must ever know. She has kept her promise and she knows that it was for the best. For now, her secret remains just so.
CHAPTER 1
Cornwall
Saturday 9th March, 2019
Annabel Penrose groaned as yet another tractor pulled out in front of her. She eased off the accelerator, looked at her watch and sighed. She couldn’t be late, not today. Sleeping through her alarm had made for a bad start to the day, but she’d been so exhausted after a week of marking her students’ dissertations that she had really needed the rest.
The argument with Luke hadn’t helped, either. Her stomach sank as she thought back to it, remembering the anger etched all over his normally handsome face. She didn’t think it had been unreasonable to ask her boyfriend of four years where he had been until 3 a.m. that morning or why he hadn’t replied to any of her messages. But apparently it had been ‘controlling and manipulative’, and now she was driving to Cornwall alone. How had it all become so difficult?
The heavy traffic had been the icing on the cake and the journey from Bath to her grandmother’s house on the north coast had taken over an hour longer than usual. The fine spring weather had encouraged everyone to escape to the coast and clog up the M5 motorway in doing so, and the local farmers were out making the most of the sunshine. She took a deepbreath and turned up the radio, recognising the start of one of her favourite nineties boy band hits.
‘Don’t turn left.Pleasedon’t turn left,’ she muttered as the tractor approached the next junction. A flicker of the indicator told her that it was going to do just that. Annabel groaned again, then followed in the wake of the giant machine as it turned off the main road and onto the narrow lane.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat and she stole a quick glance. Mum. For the third time.
Where are you? PLEASE don’t be late!
‘Doing my best, Mum!’ she said through gritted teeth.
The tractor slowed and indicated again. Sticking his head out of the cabin, the farmer gave her a cheerful wave and disappeared through a narrow gateway. She managed a smile and returned the wave; she couldn’t really be cross with him. With a clear road ahead, she put her foot down, eating up the last couple of miles in a style of which Lewis Hamilton would have been proud. She really mustn’t be late.
Annabel rounded the last bend and saw the black and white sign: Penrose Farm. She relaxed and felt a warm, fuzzy feeling: she was coming home. She drove between the stone pillars and followed the gravel drive through the trees. The lush, green lawn was a neat tapestry woven with delicate primroses and on either side of the track daffodils danced in the breeze. She had always loved this time of year in Cornwall. With spring flowers emerging and lambs frolicking in the fresh, green fields, it filled her heart with a renewed sense of hope. And she was needing some of that today.
Penrose Farm had felt like home for as long as Annabel could remember. Some of her earliest and fondest memorieswere here; rolling around on the lawn with her grandparents’ Collie dogs, bottle feeding baby lambs or climbing trees in the woods with her older brother, William. She had never actually lived at the farmhouse full-time, but with her parents often posted overseas for her father’s work, most of her boarding school holidays and exeats had been spent here, with Granny Dotty, as she and William called her. She had been their rock, Annabel mused, smiling to herself as she thought of their cheerful, white-haired grandmother.
At the front of the farmhouse was a sea of cars, lined up bumper to bumper, and it was a struggle to find a space. After squeezing between her brother’s Audi and the farmer’s mud-splattered Land Rover, Annabel applied a quick slash of lipstick, grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat and made her way to the front door. She ran a hand through her long, dark blonde hair in a bid to tame it and grinned at the gold helium balloons attached to the door handle. ‘Happy 100th birthday!’ they announced.
Her mother’s radar was clearly on high alert as the door opened right as Annabel reached for the handle.
‘Hi Mum! I’m—’
‘Darling, what on earth happened?’ Her mother cut her off. She kissed her cheek perfunctorily then continued with a furrowed brow, ‘You look tired! I messaged you, but you didn’t reply!’ She looked out towards the sea of cars and asked, ‘Where’s Luke?’
‘I was driving, Mum, I couldn’t reply. And if I’d stopped to reply, I’d have been even later. Luke’s not coming, he’s not feeling well.’
Annabel took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. It wasn’t exactly a lie; he wasn’t feeling well. At that very moment, hewas probably sprawled on the sofa nursing his hangover after last night’s shenanigans. She groaned inwardly at the thought. Why hadn’t he just told her where he had been?
Jeanette Penrose was a trim woman in her early seventies, but in her smart turquoise shift dress and matching jacket, with her silvery blonde hair elegantly styled into soft waves, she looked at least a decade younger. Retirement in the Algarve clearly agreed with her, and Annabel envied her year-round tan.
‘Oh, I see.’ she said. ‘Well that’s a shame, I hope he’s feeling better soon. Do send him my love.’
How did her mother do it? Annabel had been there for less than a minute and every single comment that she had uttered so far had irritated her. Her making of fuss of Luke annoyed her at the best of times, but today it felt like something of a betrayal after he’d been a complete shit to her.
Jeanette had put Luke on a pedestal when they first got together and Annabel couldn’t bear the way she fawned over him. She seemed to view him as some sort of knight in shining armour, nobly rescuing her daughter from a future of spinsterhood and maiden aunt status. What a hero. What an arse, more like. If only her mother knew the half of it.
‘Anyway – ’ Annabel forced a smile and followed her mother through the hallway and into the kitchen – ‘I’m here now. How’s the birthday girl?’
‘Oh she’s fine, you know Dotty; loving all the attention!’ Jeanette gave a dramatic eye roll and Annabel swallowed down an irritated reply. ‘She’s in the conservatory, surrounded by her adoring fans! Everyone’s been here since eleven, as per the invitation,’ she added tartly.
