Each Little Lie

by Tom Bale

Genres: Mystery; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

‘ OMG…this is a story you don’t want to miss. The author pulls you in from the start and weaves an incredible story that will keep you guessing until the very end…it will leave you gasping. Once again I am totally blown away ’ 5 stars Chelle’s Book Reviews One split second decision and you could lose your child forever... When single mother Jen Cornish sees her neighbour’s keys on the footpath outside her home, she has no idea the simple good deed of returning them will end in her fighting for her life – and that of her son, Charlie. Soon, Jen is arrested for a crime committed in her neighbour’s house, and the police have damning evidence. Jen wonders, is she losing her mind, or is she being framed? Desperate to clear her name, Jen must untangle a chilling web of lies, and there’s only one suspect on her list: her ex, Charlie’s father. But someone is watching her every move – and it isn’t just Jen who is in danger. They’re watching her child too. Can Jen uncover the dark truth before it’s too late? An unputdownable psychological thriller with plenty of twists…fans of Harlan Coben, Simon Kernick and Linwood Barclay will be hooked until the very last page. Read what everyone is saying about Each Little Lie ‘I LOVED this book! An easy 5 star read that had more than enough twists and turns to keep you hooked until the very last page!’ 5 stars – Donna’s Book Blog ‘Bale is a real master of the thriller, twisting everyday life into the horrifying with a plot that hurtles along at an unprecedented rate. Brilliant!’ 5 stars Bloomin’ Brilliant Books ‘Tom Bale just keeps bringing out the most amazing high tension, adrenaline-fuelled thrillers that insist on knocking the socks off the one before. Each Little Lie has done EXACTLY that and what a breathtakingly, exhilarating experience it was too!’ 5 stars My Chestnut Reading Tree ‘His books are some of the most compelling reads I've come across in this genre. A #WTF moment as each chapter unfolds… in a stomach churning, fearfully, paranoid way, I LOVED it! ’ 5 stars Chapter in my life ’OMG Tom Bale never ceases to surprise me, this author has an incredible knack for creating a thriller with a difference’ 5 stars The Book Review Café ‘If you are looking for a character and plot driven story with a wonderful blend of characters, mystery and intrigue with a healthy side order of threat and menace then absolutely give this book a whirl. I loved it.’ 5 stars Jen Med Book Reviews ‘A compulsive page-turner, with elements of a psychological thriller combined with a hefty dose of humanity. I look forward to each new Tom Bale book, and I am never disappointed! Bibliophile Book Club Praise for Tom Bale ‘Tom Bale is one of the best British thriller writers around’ Simon Kernick ‘Really not kidding when I say #SoGoodMyKindleMelted, I was flicking so fast the Kindle was in danger of combusting!!’ Baatty About Books ‘I was left gasping for breath. It was a whirlwind, an engaging, action-packed novel with a thrilling sense of danger weaved right the way through, pulling me ever-closer to the end.’ Becca’s Books ‘Once again, Tom Bale has masterfully woven together a tale of heart stopping suspense! I'm hooked for life and cannot wait until his next book! ’ The Suspense is Thrilling Me

Release date: June 29, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 392

Sample

He’d crossed her path before, but today was different. There was a flash of light as the man hurried across the patch of grass at the front of his property; Jen caught the glint of sunlight on metal, the sense of something falling.

For most of August he’d been running later than normal, which made her wonder if his schedule, like hers, was influenced by the school holidays. As usual, he was carrying a couple of his mysterious boxes, cradling them awkwardly in both arms, as if the contents were precious rather than heavy.

On some mornings he took his car, a Nissan X-Trail that was parked at the kerb; on others – like today – he was being collected. A white Subaru waited in the road, engine running. The driver, a middle-aged woman, had already thrust the passenger door open.

Until recently the man had often attempted eye contact, and sometimes a cryptic smile to acknowledge that their routines had coincided yet again. Perhaps he’d secretly hoped she would ask what those boxes contained. But a couple of weeks ago she’d been crossing the road by the hospital when his X-Trail came blasting around the corner and nearly ran her down. Since then she’d made a point of ignoring him, and he must have got the message. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he crouched and manoeuvred himself onto the seat, propping the boxes on his knees.

The car was already moving as he pulled the door shut, the woman accelerating with unnecessary vigour towards the junction with Bristol Gardens. As Jen drew level with the man’s property she had to shield her eyes with one hand. The low morning sun had set the windows ablaze: perhaps that was what she’d noticed?

No. After a month of hot weather the scrap of lawn was parched and pale, so it wasn’t difficult to see what the man had dropped on the grass.

A set of keys.

Instinct took over. Discarding her sports bag, Jen snatched up the keys and ran.

In a past life, pre motherhood, she had been a dedicated runner and climber; even now, at thirty-four, she was light on her feet and very fast. She made it to the end of the street in seconds, but the Subaru was already too far away.

Checking the road was clear, Jen stepped out and waved to attract the driver’s attention. A flash of brake lights gave her hope, only for the car to take a sharp left turn and disappear. Jen stood for a moment with her hands on her hips. Now what?

The grumble of an engine reminded her that she was in the middle of the road; a delivery van rolled towards her, the driver frowning even as he checked out her body. She was dressed for work, which meant trainers, tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt. Not baggy enough, perhaps.

She jogged back to the house, aware that the keys in her hand now represented a problem. Unless. . .

She rang the doorbell, waited a few seconds, then knocked loudly. She couldn’t recall having seen anyone else coming or going, but that wasn’t to say the man didn’t have a partner or a family. Should she put the keys through the letterbox?

It was almost nine thirty. She had to be at work for ten, and the bus service in Brighton wasn’t always reliable. Ideally she needed somebody to open the door, take the keys and let Jen get on with her day.

Retreating across the grass, she squinted at the upper windows. No hint of movement. She turned in a slow circle, hoping someone had seen her predicament and was coming to help. Mislaid his keys, did he? Don’t worry, I’ll take them for you.

Regency Place was a curious but not unattractive mix of terraced houses, new builds and small apartment blocks. Jen’s own flat was about ten minutes’ walk away, up the hill. This house was one of only three modest two-storey homes, squeezed between a row of lock-up garages and a plot of fenced-off waste ground. Directly opposite was a longer terrace, but it was positioned side-on to the road, so the occupants of the end house had only a limited view across the street. Because of that, Jen thought, they were unlikely to know the people who lived here.

But there were at least two neighbours she could try. She knocked at the house next door, but the sound that came back had a hollow, empty feel to it. Moving to the third property, she made out the frantic skittering of paws on a hard floor. There were signs everywhere: ‘WARNING: BEWARE OF THE DOG’. . . ‘NO CALLERS’. . . ‘ADDRESSED MAIL ONLY’.

A volley of barks followed her knock, and what sounded like a heavy animal threw itself against the front door. Jen backed away, feeling slightly relieved when no one answered.

She returned to where she’d left her sports bag on the lawn and studied the keys in her hand. Three in all, attached to a cheap plastic key ring: a Yale, which seemed to correspond to the front door; a bulkier key for a mortise lock; and a small one that might fit a padlock. She checked the time again – nine thirty-three – and considered her options.

Now that she’d found the keys, she could hardly toss them back onto the grass. Somebody else was bound to come along and spot them, and that person might not be as law-abiding as Jen. Nor were there any better places to leave them for the householder to find.

Again she thought of slipping them through the letterbox. But if they were the only set, the man would have to break in to his own house, or hire a locksmith. Jen didn’t want to cause him that kind of hassle, even if he did sometimes drive like a maniac.

Hand them in at the police station? That was no doubt the correct thing to do. But the nearest station was a bus ride away, and how long would it take to be seen? These days there were probably all sorts of forms to fill in.

I could take the keys with me and leave him a note? That seemed like a far better solution.

She crouched to open her bag. She usually carried a couple of the weekly timetables from work, listing the various training sessions and fitness classes on offer. She was less certain about a pen, but maybe there’d be something at the bottom of the bag; even just a pencil or crayon used by her seven-year-old son, Charlie.

After rummaging for several seconds, she emptied her spare clothes and toiletries onto the grass and felt around in every corner of the bag. She found a copy of the timetable, but nothing to write with. Returning home to fetch a pen would take fifteen or twenty minutes – time she didn’t have.

She turned to scan the street in both directions: no one in sight. She sighed. There was an idea forming, though she wasn’t yet sure if she wanted to entertain it.

Then she flinched, and turned towards the house. Had she heard something from inside?

She moved closer to the front door and listened carefully. Did the silence have a different quality to that of the neighbouring property, or was it merely her imagination playing tricks, because she wanted someone to come and take these keys off her hands?

Nine thirty-six – she really had to get going. She knocked again, four loud thumps on the door. Glanced up to check the windows, and at the same time registered that there was no box to indicate the presence of a burglar alarm.

Make a decision. . .

When she looked down, the Yale was gripped between her thumb and forefinger. She slipped it into the lock.

After opening the door a fraction, she hesitated, alert to any sound or vibration from within, then called out: ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

All that came back was a faint ticking noise, and the hum and gurgle of a fridge. She opened the door wider and peeked inside. The hallway was narrow, with a flight of stairs to her left, a living room to the right and the kitchen straight ahead.

‘Hello?’ she called again. ‘I found your keys outside. Can you come and get them?’

There was no answer, no movement, no sense of anybody listening. And yet Jen felt a tickle on the back of her neck. She turned quickly, sure that somebody was about to accuse her of intruding. But the street was deserted.

She shook off an irrational twinge of guilt. This wasn’t intruding: she was trying to do a good deed. If she went inside, it was only to find a pen so she could write a note.

Okay, maybe there was just a tiny illicit thrill as she stepped over the threshold – because who didn’t enjoy an opportunity to look around an unfamiliar house?

The hallway had laminate flooring, and as she set her bag down she noticed dust and grime in the corners, bolstering her gut feeling that this man lived alone; housework obviously wasn’t high on the agenda.

She was in two minds about shutting the front door, and settled for leaving it ajar. She cleared her throat, and called out once more: ‘Is anyone home?’

Gonna be very late for work. With that urgency on her mind, she moved towards the open doorway to her right and found a small living room, bare except for a sofa, a single straight-backed chair and a TV on a metal stand. There was a mirror on the wall but no pictures, no photographs or personal effects. A folded newspaper on the sofa was the only sign of recent occupation.

She made for the kitchen, passing a toilet and a closed door to what she assumed would be the dining room. There was a faint smell of aftershave or body spray in the air, she realised; something woody and masculine and not very subtle.

The kitchen was small, with shiny white units and black marble-effect worktops. The built-in appliances were rarely used, if the dust on the hob was anything to go by. A single coffee mug sat on the worktop, next to a kettle that still had condensation visible through the water-gauge window. A wrapper from a cereal bar lay on the floor: breakfast on the run, consistent with the man’s urgency as he left the house.

She couldn’t see anything to write with, and wondered if she should just leave the keys outside the front door, perhaps covered by a pot or a bowl. She felt a growing sense of unease, and decided that venturing upstairs would be too intrusive. It was the dining room or nothing.

She gripped the handle, then let it go and knocked instead, chilled by a sudden notion that she would open the door to find an entire family seated at the table in absolute silence, all turning to stare at her.

No one answered, of course, so she opened the door, had a look inside, and gasped.

Her first thought: Well, this explains the boxes. And if pushed, perhaps she’d have to concede that her curiosity about them had been a factor in her decision to enter the house.

The room still held a dining table, but it was covered with dozens of figurines, ranging in size from a few inches to perhaps a foot and a half tall, set into heavy resin bases. The figures themselves were constructed from ingenious combinations of steel and copper wire, glass and precious stones and even the sort of everyday nuts and bolts that you might pick up at a DIY shop.

Most of them were representations from classical mythology – the gods and monsters of ancient Greece, the spirits and demons of Celtic folklore. Jen stared at them in fascination. As an outdoor enthusiast from early childhood, she felt a deep affinity for the myths and legends of the Green Man, of Cernunnos the Celtic god of the forest, and saw a lot of merit in the idea of treating the planet as a single precious organism.

She took a step into the room and felt something crunch underfoot. The floor was gritty with fragments of glass and strands of wire. That suggested some work was done in here, although the room wasn’t equipped as a studio, and the man projected none of the vitality or enthusiasm that Jen had encountered in the artists she’d met over the years; he usually had the weary, put-upon demeanour of a bureaucrat.

Jen wondered if he was a retailer, and chose to keep some of his stock at home. She had little doubt that this artwork was valuable. Each piece was individually crafted, and must have taken many hours to produce. Perhaps the man was familiar enough with the work to make a few tiny alterations himself.

At the far end of the room there was a shelving unit on which more of the figures were arranged, along with a stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes. There were also scissors and packing tape, and a jar with half a dozen Sharpie pens. A large roll of bubble wrap sat on the floor beside the unit, and resting on that was a spiral notebook. Hallelujah!

Jen moved slowly, anxious not to bump into any of the larger figures. It was tempting to stop and admire them, but she was already going to be late for work, and that would only make things more difficult with Nick.

The notebook was brand new and unused. She tore out a page, took a Sharpie from the jar, but as she crouched slightly to write there was a soft clanging noise. Her foot had nudged a metal waste bin beneath the table.

At first she thought it contained no more than ordinary rubbish – scraps of packing tape, offcuts of cardboard and bubble wrap, an empty bottle of cherry cola – but then she spotted a head poking from the debris.

And she recognised it.

She couldn’t resist taking a closer look. Retrieving the figure carefully from the bin, she saw that one of the legs had snapped below the knee, presumably rendering it worthless.

Jen didn’t agree. Even with the damage, it was a beautiful, delicate piece of art: a tall, sinuous representation of Elen of the Ways, an antlered goddess of ancient Britain who was said to watch over pathways, both physical and spiritual. Jen had first heard of her a few years ago, while hiking in Northumberland with a group that included a couple of practising Wiccans.

The figurine was about ten inches tall, with antlers carved from what might have been real bone sprouting from her skull. Her glorious red hair was composed of multiple strands of copper wire, and she was clad in a long, flowing cloak made with dozens of dark green beads, each one no larger than a peppercorn. Her face had been shaped from crystal, perhaps rose quartz, and caught the light as Jen turned it in her hand, making it seem almost as though her expression had changed from sombre reflection to something warm and wise.

Jen had never seen such a gorgeous piece, and she resolved to ask the man, when he came to collect his keys, how much these figures sold for and where she could buy them.

But this one’s broken, thrown away; you could easily—

She shut that idea down at once, but felt a twinge of disappointment as she placed the goddess gently back in the bin. She scribbled a note, explaining that he’d dropped his keys and could arrange to collect them by calling her mobile number. Then she tore off a couple of strips of packing tape, retrieved her bag from the hall and left the house, struck by the shock of heat and humidity as she stepped outside. For the past few weeks, Brighton had felt more like some sun-drenched resort in the Aegean or the Med than the English Channel, and Jen was loving every minute of it.

After closing the front door, she fixed the note to the upper panel, smoothing out the tape until she was sure it was stuck firmly in place. A car passed while she had her back to the road, but otherwise the street was quiet.

So why the knot of tension in her guts as she turned away, the feeling that she was being not just watched, but judged?

She shivered. Hefting the sports bag onto her shoulder, she set off at a jog towards the corner and kept up the pace all the way to the bus stop on Eastern Road, praying for an uncongested route to Portslade. If there were any lingering doubts, they were quickly pushed aside. What she’d done had been the right thing, as well as the easiest solution at the time.

Work was at the Skyway, a sports centre built on the site of a former engineering works on the border of Hove and Portslade, a short walk – or, today, a breathless run – from the bus stop on New Church Road. There was a well-equipped gym and a twenty-five-metre pool, available to members only, with squash courts, a soft play area and a large mixed-activity hall – for basketball, trampolining and so on – open to the public.

Jen spent most of her time at the centre’s newest addition: an indoor bouldering area which offered five hundred square yards of rope-free rock climbing for all ages and abilities. As well as being available for individual tuition, she ran regular classes for small groups, mostly first-timers curious about this relatively unknown form of exercise.

She was twenty minutes late, which wasn’t ideal, though the hot weather was having a notable effect on visitor numbers, making it the quietest summer holiday anyone could remember. The first class didn’t start till eleven, and there were only a handful of regulars limbering up when she arrived.

Glynn was on the desk this morning. He was a tall, wiry man in his forties, an avid road cyclist who had quickly become obsessive about climbing. He had a ball of putty in each hand, and was squeezing them to build up the strength in his forearms.

‘You’ve got Nick on the warpath.’

‘Have I?’

‘Just kidding.’ Glynn’s soft Welsh accent and deadpan manner were perfect for wind-ups, but Jen should have known better. Appraising her carefully, he said, ‘You up for a one-to-one?’

‘I guess so.’ Jen looked around, surprised there was any demand for tuition this early in the day.

‘The feller was here a second— Ah, there he is.’

A young man had emerged from the changing rooms, dressed in green shorts, a yellow T-shirt and a pair of Scarpa climbing shoes. Jen turned before he could make eye contact; her wince told Glynn all he needed to know.

‘Then again, you could assume command of the cash register while I instruct this novice in the finer points of crimping?’

‘Thanks.’ Jen grinned. ‘Least you can do, after scaring me like that.’

A flurry of customers appeared, and then it was time for the eleven o’clock class. After that, one of the seasonal employees begged for help setting up the soft-play equipment. A couple of regular staff had called in sick, including the woman whose job was to oversee birthday parties.

As a result, Jen was in the sports hall for nearly two hours, corralling a boisterous group of nine-year-olds. The job was often like this, chaotically varied, and Jen rarely spent the whole day in the role that had been assigned to her. Some of her colleagues resented that variety, but in general she welcomed the chance to acquire different skills.

By most people’s standards this was an unconventional occupation, though for her it represented a major compromise: not only was it rooted in one geographical location, but the majority of her work took place indoors. There were times when she sorely missed the freedom she’d once had, leading small groups of wealthy tourists on treks across the Serengeti or over the mountains of Patagonia. And while she had been glad to make the sacrifices that motherhood required, it was proving far more difficult to meet the challenges of life as a single parent, while also accommodating the many demands made by Charlie’s dad, Freddie.

Thinking of her ex-husband made her realise that he hadn’t been in touch about the arrangements for the final week of the holiday. She sent him a quick text once she’d finished up in the sports hall: Don’t forget you’re having Charlie from tomorrow night.

When she returned to the climbing centre it was almost two o’clock, and Glynn had just finished an intermediate class. There was no sign of the young man from this morning, whose name, she thought, might be Dean. Earlier in the summer she’d given him some tuition in a number of group sessions that had also included his girlfriend – an attractive but surly woman who’d shown little enthusiasm for bouldering and even less for her partner. This sort of climbing tended to be very social, with a lot of discussion about the best way to tackle a problem, and yet the two of them had barely exchanged a word.

Since then he’d come in several times on his own, and she’d caught him gazing wistfully in her direction. Glynn confirmed her worst fears when he said, ‘That bloke Dean was asking if you were single.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Married, I told him.’ A wink as he placed his palm above his head. ‘Loved up to here.’

‘Who is?’ a voice cut in. For such a burly man, Nick had a disconcerting ability to appear from nowhere, usually when there wasn’t much work being done.

‘Me, boss.’ Glynn came to Jen’s rescue, only to get a signal that one of the climbers needed advice. His knowing look as he trotted away told her: You can take it from here.

Nick frowned in his wake. ‘He’s joking, right? I thought Glynn’s been with his wife forever?’

‘Fifteen years – and don’t look so shocked. Some people can stay in love for that long.’

The lucky few, she thought, while he only shrugged at such a preposterous idea. But she was glad that Nick hadn’t picked up on the true subject of the conversation. The centre had had problems in the past with female staff members being propositioned – and even stalked – so he tended to react very firmly to any hint of unwanted attention, and sometimes he could be a bit too heavy-handed.

Nick was thirty-eight, a lifelong fitness fanatic who’d moved here from Australia more than a decade ago. He was short and thickset, with piercing green eyes set into a face that might have been carved from mango wood. His light brown hair was cropped close to disguise a growing bald patch, and he had Aboriginal dotwork tattoos on his biceps. As far as Jen could tell, he wore shorts and muscle vests all year round, the better to display his fabulous physique.

‘You okay?’ he asked, in a warmer tone. ‘I heard you came in late?’

Jen nodded, wondering who had ratted her out. ‘Yeah, sorry, I’ll make up the time.’

‘What’s up – more problems with the ex-hole?’

She shook her head, taking half a step back as he edged closer. ‘Just bad luck with the buses—’

‘Jen! Call for you.’ They turned; Clare at the desk was holding up the phone. ‘It’s Freddie.’

Not great timing. Freddie was usually impossible to track down, and Jen had texted with the expectation that he wouldn’t reply for hours, if at all.

Apologising to Nick, she hurried over to take the call. ‘Hi, Freddie.’

‘Uh, Jen, about tomorrow …’

‘Freddie, this has been agreed all summer.’ She heard her voice come out flat, as it always did when they spoke.

‘Yeah, I know, but I don’t see why you have to get so hung up on, like, exact dates.’

Jen opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Transferring her frustration to a clenched fist, she said, ‘Are you telling me you can’t have him? Because he’ll be devastated.’

‘Nah, that’s not what I’m saying, if you’d listen. It’s just, Wednesday’s not great. It’d be better if I took him from Thursday, or maybe Friday? Friday for a week would be cool.’

Jen sighed. A clenched fist wasn’t enough, and now the muscles in her legs were rigid with tension. A few feet away, Nick was pretending to inspect the main noticeboard. Jen knew the glossy printed posters had a reflective sheen, so either he was admiring his own image – a distinct possibility – or he was slyly keeping an eye on her.

‘Charlie thinks you’re taking him to Cornwall. Is that still the plan?’

Freddie made a surprised little sound in his throat, which she had come to recognise as a signal for incipient dishonesty. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Well, Friday for a week isn’t possible, because he starts back at school next Thursday.’

‘So what? It’s only a day or two—’

‘He can’t afford to miss the start of term. Year three is a big deal. What’s so urgent that you can’t have him tomorrow night?’

‘Oh, it’s just—’ The way he broke off suggested a reluctance to incriminate himself.

‘A new conquest, then?’

Silence, until her snort prompted a laugh. ‘Jen, c’mon. I can’t admit to that – but if I did, we’d be talking seriously, scorching hot.’

She glanced round at Nick, the muscles in his shoulders taut from the effort of eavesdropping, and said, ‘I’ve got to go, or I’ll be in trouble at work.’

‘What, with that guy Nick?’ He said the name in a taunting sing-song voice. ‘Nah. My guess is he’d bend all kinds of rules for you.’

Jen was shaken by the innuendo, but affected boredom. ‘Whatever. Please think about tomorrow, and for Charlie’s sake try and stick to the schedule we agreed.’

She ended the call, and Nick was immediately at her side, his fingertips brushing against her arm. ‘Hope he wasn’t giving you a hard time?’

‘Just problems with the arrangements for Charlie.’

‘So the bastard’s going back on his word?’

‘Not completely, but. . .’ Jen shrugged. Even now, after the infidelities and the lies and the break-up, the failed attempt at mediation and the prospect of the painful, expensive court hearings to come, she was still reluctant to be openly critical of Freddie, particularly to another man who, if she was honest, shared more than a few of her ex-husband’s less appealing traits.

Too many men interfering in my life, she thought, and the only one I want or need is Charlie.

Jen left work at four thirty and was lucky with the buses she needed to get to the Hanover district of Brighton. Anna Morgan’s home was in a smart Victorian terrace within easy walking distance of Queens Park, where Charlie had spent so much of his summer holiday with his best friend – Anna’s son, Lucas.

The boys were in the back garden, constructing a den from garden chairs and beach towels. When Charlie spotted her on the patio, he dashed across the lawn and thudded into her arms, hugging her as if they’d been apart for weeks rather than twenty-four hours. Jen was touched by his willingness to show such wholehearted affection in front of his friend, though the intensity of his embrace only deepened her guilt that she didn’t have enough time to give him. Her own parents had warned her how fast he would grow up, and there wasn’t a single day, a single hour she’d ever get back.

‘Hiya, bud! Had a good time?’

‘Yeah. We went to the beach, and I swam underwater.’

Lucas, who had charged up beside him, rubbed his knuckles into Charlie’s dark curls and said, ‘I held my breath for two minutes!’

Charlie countered: ‘I held my breath for longer!’

‘I can do it the longest.’ Lucas took a dramatic gulp of air and then clamped his lips together, scrabbling away as Charlie tried to tickle him.

‘It was closer to twenty seconds than two minutes,’ Anna confided, ‘though they both did really well.’

‘Oh, they did. And thanks so much for taking them to the beach.’

‘Best place to be in this heat. You know, I think this could be the summer that defines their memory of childhood. Endless days of sunshine and carefree living. . .’ She paused, examining Jen closely, and said, ‘Carefree for them, at least. You, by contrast, look rather …’

‘Frazzled?’ After telling Charlie to go and fetch his bag, Jen explained that Freddie looked set to renege on his agreement.

‘What about Cornwall? Charlie’s talked about it non-stop.’

‘I don’t know. I strongly suggested he put Charlie first, instead of. . .’

‘This week’s floozy,’ Anna finished with a disparaging snort. ‘Does that mean no drinks on Thursday? Because we are both badly in need of a night out.’

Jen nodded. ‘All we can do is hope.’

Charlie was chattering happily as they left the house, and Jen didn’t have the heart to tell him about her conversation with his dad. She’d leave it till tomorrow morning and hope that Freddie’s better conscience prevailed.

Earlier this afternoon Nick had sidled up and told her she should insist that Freddie keep to his agreement. ‘It’s important to get time to yourself. You’re overdue a bit of freedom.’

Jen had nodded, though in reality any sense of liberation was quick to evaporate, with Charlie’s absence from their dingy flat making her feel lonely and dispirited. But she understood what Nick was hinting at, and deftly changed the subject.

The best part of her working day had been a one-to-one tuition with Oscar, a boy of eleven who had cerebral palsy, epilepsy and learning difficulties. He’d bonded with Jen from their first encounter, and with her help had rapidly overcome his fear of this strange new environment. Now he could spend twenty or thirty minutes on the wall, slowly negotiating the lowest-grade problem. Following a lateral route, he was never more than a couple of feet off the ground, but the sense of achievement when he completed the challenge – the glitter of pride and delight in his eyes – was a joy to behold.

Today his parents, who for the first few sessions had watched with hand-wringing anxiety, had felt confident enough to slip away to the centre’s cafe. When the session finished, his mother had spontaneously kissed Jen on the cheek. ‘We can’t thank you enough. This is having such a positive effect on other areas of his life.’

Embarrassed, Jen said, ‘Only doing my job. And I love watching him progress.’

‘No, it’s more than that,’ Oscar’s father said. ‘The time you take with him, the patience and encour. . .