The Due Date

by Niki Mackay

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A truly unforgettable story about friendship, motherhood and how far we'll go to protect the ones we love. Filled with tension and mind-blowing twists, fans of Claire Douglas, Gillian McAllister and CL Taylor will love The Due Date.

You shared everything for nine months. But you don't know her at all.

When Ali meets Rebecca, she feels an instant connection. Both pregnant, with babies due the same day, Ali can't wait to share the highs and lows of motherhood with her new friend.

Rebecca is everything Ali wishes she could be - beautiful, confident, wealthy. But Ali senses in her the same loneliness she's been feeling since moving to the suburbs. Maybe they can help each other, and Ali won't feel so alone anymore.

Then their due date comes and goes, and Ali hears nothing for weeks. Worried about her friend, Ali tracks her down and is relieved to find Rebecca safe and well. But relief turns to shock when Rebecca denies ever meeting her... or ever having been pregnant at all.

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: October 26, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

 

2010

She stares down at him. His body is misshapen, left leg flung out sideways at an almost jaunty angle, head turned too far to one side, eyes wide open, staring, glassy.

There are noises outside, the frantic sound of people rushing from the house to the patio and panicking. Screams reach up, carried on the stiflingly warm night air. She steps back from the edge of the balcony, back into the room she’d been asleep in just, what – minutes . . . probably only seconds ago? Before everything shattered and fragmented; her hopes and dreams, falling down around her like jagged broken glass.

Her teeth start chattering, and the rest of her body follows suit, a terrible dance starting as a quiver in her head, a shudder in her shoulders, taking over the rest of her. A sound escapes. ‘Shh,’ says her friend, getting up now, coming towards her, crawling on hands and knees. She is frowning, serious.

She clamps her hands to her mouth but the sobs explode out between her fingers, her warm breath a sharp contrast to her cold, frostbitten digits.

‘Stop.’

‘I . . . I . . . c-­c– c-­c-­can’t.’

‘You can.’

She shakes her head, the world spins as the insides of her brain slip around in her skull like soup.

‘You can.’ Again. Firm. Strong. ‘Breathe in, with me.’

‘C-­c-­c-­c-­c-­can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’ Hands, familiar, pressing into her shoulders. The fingers digging in hard, not hurting, not quite, but almost. ‘Look at me.’

Her eyes meet her friend’s, hands clenched like claws, talon nails pressing into her cheeks. Her friend takes them in hers, her voice soft, low, soothing. ‘Breathe in, one . . . two . . . three . . . and out, four . . . five . . . six.’

They get to a hundred. Her heart has slowed, her legs are like jelly, but she feels steadier, like she can, at least, stay standing; her arms are slack now, hanging by her sides, her breath loud and long.

The music that had been blaring has cut to silence, and they hear footsteps on the stairs. Each one feels like a death knell.

1

Now

I stab the knife into the flimsy brown masking tape and run it across the width of the box. It makes a pleasing sound and a puff of air escapes to freedom. The baby rolls inside me. I sit back on my heels, lifting up the last top I own that fully covers me and look at my stomach shifting, shapes protruding through skin that looks as thin as the tape I’ve just cut through. The top is damp with my perspiration, the heat making my large, ungainly body even more difficult to bear. A faint brown line marks my protruding, fit-­to-­split belly right down the centre. It’s called a linea alba. Dan looked it up in one of the many books he has come home brandishing like wondrous gifts and read aloud from, awed by all that my body can do.

My phone rings, startling me. I drop the knife which nicks my swollen ankle on its way down. A bright pinprick of blood rises immediately. ‘Shit.’ I lick my finger, press it against the tiny mark. As soon as I pull my hand away the spot bubbles up again.

Mum flashes on the screen. I’ll leave it. I don’t need to pick up every single time she calls. It keeps ringing for an appallingly long amount of time.

I grab it at the last moment. ‘Mum, hi.’

‘Interrupt you, did I?’

‘No,’ I say through clenched teeth as a bead of sweat worms its way down my still-­bared belly. I pull the top back down, pressing it against the wetness, feeling it sink into the material. I am leaking from everywhere, like a large, damp porous thing. ‘I’m just finishing unpacking.’

‘Why on earth are you still unpacking?’

‘I haven’t had time before now. Neither of us have. We’ve been working.’

She makes a noise that could be a guffaw, or a sigh, or an exhale. ‘You’re on holiday now, though?’

‘Maternity leave, Mum. I’m on maternity leave.’

She laughs. ‘Holiday, you mean, you’re not due for almost a month.’

Inside the box are more boxes. Plastic ones full of, I swear to God, everything Dan has ever owned in his life. I pick one up, take off the lid: school books, for goodness’ sake. I close it. I’ll just leave these in his office, perhaps that way we can avoid another ‘discussion’ about his hoarding.

‘The baby might come early,’ I say, hoping against hope that that’s not true, not least because Dan is due to be away with work next week.

‘You work from home anyway; I’m not convinced you really need to give up for six months.’

This is a new favourite of hers. She has been appalled at the amount of people who now have flexible working arrangements and absolutely sure that we are all, in fact, sitting at home bone-­idle, conning our poor long-­suffering employers and laughing whilst we do it.

‘I’m still in meetings all day, Mum,’ I say, standing up, phone pressed between my shoulder and head. Knees groaning at the heft of it. The tiny spot of blood already congealing and surprisingly irritating for such a small wound.

‘Ha,’ she says and I swallow down a million retorts, waiting for the long lecture on all the hard work she has done over the years. I hear the doorbell ring in the background. ‘Hang on, Alison.’ A clattering, the sounds of her footsteps in the hallway. Her voice, cheerful now. Then, ‘Alison, I must go, Nick’s popped by.’

I roll my eyes and am about to say Okay, bye, but she’s already gone.

Bloody charming. I look at the boxes, at the floor which needs a good sweep. Our bedroom isn’t much better. I’d foolishly washed the bedding as it was a good drying day so now I have a messy living room, an office with no furniture, a nursery, a miniature kitchen and an unmade bed.

Sod this.

 

I go out for some fresh air, but outside is almost worse than being inside the poky little cottage. The heat is oppressive and sends a glimmer of worry through me as I contemplate all the ways these persistently high temperatures are wrong in England, and here I am, bringing a child into it. I press a hand beneath my belly, lifting it slightly, feeling a momentary relief on my pelvis and bladder. By the time I get to the lake, I am so grateful to sink onto a bench under a shady tree that I could cry. It is quiet here now, but it gets busy at lunchtime, people spill out from an industrial estate not far away with sandwiches and blankets, making the most of the summer that threatens to suffocate me. Later it will be flooded by school children on their way home. Just a few short years ago I’d have enjoyed this moment – a day off, the sun out – with a cigarette, perhaps a can of fizzy pink G&T, at least a coffee. I’d given up all of those two short weeks after we’d got married and decided to start trying for a baby, back in the days when we lived in London proper, in a crappy houseshare admittedly, but in a vibrant, buzzing area. I’d always been able to work from home occasionally but then, I was mostly in the office. Often by choice. I liked my job, got along well with my colleagues and felt like I was doing work that mattered. Since the pandemic, my boss, Joanna, allowed us to choose how much we came in, which had enabled Dan and me to buy a place further out of the city. We’d saved and saved and saved to be able to afford it and, here we were. Out in the calm, subdued suburb I grew up in. On the water, a beautiful swan floats past, followed by smaller, greyer ones – cygnets, they’re called, aren’t they? She looks unruffled by motherhood. Unperturbed. Quite the opposite of me before I’ve even got started.

‘Bloody awful to be so enormous in this heat.’

I turn quickly with a frown, which drops when I see a tall woman with dark hair and a belly to rival my own grinning down at me. She points to the seat. ‘May I?’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘There’s not enough shade.’

She lowers herself with a groan I immediately sympathise with, and I find myself suppressing a smile. ‘Look at that haughty cow.’ I look around and see that she’s glaring at the swan. ‘Bet she just popped them out and carried on gliding through the water.’

I laugh, really laugh, my annoyance at Dan’s inability to part with anything he’s ever touched and my mother’s judgemental voice pushed away. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? In our situation.’

This, this is what I’ve been longing for. I’d imagined it back when I didn’t realise that, despite both being professionals with degrees and decent salaries, owning a property and having a child would sink us into almost instant poverty if we lived anywhere within commutable distance to London. I’d imagined that I’d give up work early on in my pregnancy, join an NCT group and be part of a close-­knit circle who hosted intimate get-­togethers in our beautiful kitchens. Instead, Dan and I couldn’t both be in our galley kitchen simultaneously and NCT classes were an extravagance too far. To make matters worse, I was the first of my work friendship group to have a child and as my pregnancy had progressed and I’d switched to working almost exclusively from home, it wasn’t just the physical distance between us, it was the life distance too. Whilst my colleagues, who were mostly in their early twenties, were busily deciding what to wear to hit the clubs at the weekend, I was out shopping for compression socks in a vain attempt to sort out my Michelin-­man ankles. Occasionally one of them would remember to ask how I was getting on in the group chat, but more and more I felt I had little to contribute and even less to gain. Joanna had children but they were all grown and had left home. Plus, she was my boss and we didn’t really talk about personal matters.

‘Is it how you thought it would be?’ I ask, genuinely curious.

‘God, no. Beyoncé has a lot to answer for.’

‘Ha. I hear you.’

‘What’s your worst bit?’ she asks, hands resting on top of her bump which is higher than mine.

‘The weeing,’ I admit.

‘All bloody night and, sometimes, in the day before you make it where you need to.’ She shakes her head.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Do you think we’ll go back to normal?’

‘Christ, I hope so. Though I suppose then we’ll get woken by a screaming infant.’ She shrugs. ‘So exhaustion is the constant state now.’

I sigh.

She winks at me. ‘But at least we’ll be able to have wine then.’

‘Oh God, yes.’ I can almost imagine the taste of a dry white Chardonnay. The feel of it and the heft of an adult glass in my hand. ‘Bliss.’

‘When are you due?’ she asks, head tilting to my bump.

‘August the third.’

Her eyes widen. ‘No way.’ I’m stunned for a minute – does she think I’m lying?

‘That’s the date they’ve given me . . .’ I say.

‘Me too!’

‘Oh,’ I say, realising now why she was so surprised.

‘We’ll be mums in arms.’ She beams, holding a hand out to me. ‘I’m Rebecca, by the way.’

‘Alison . . . Ali. It’s so nice to meet you.’

2

I would have loved a sister. When I was a little girl, I’d devoured Sweet Valley Twins, then later Sweet Valley High. So many of my problems, I’d thought, would be solved by having a diligent, caring twin. One like Elizabeth, of course, though I couldn’t profess to be even half as fun as Jessica. Now, I find myself again wishing that I had a few good friends at the same stage as me, or if not quite there, at least starting to think about it. I think of Izzy, wondering what she would have made of my pregnancy, wondering if in fact she knows. I push the thought aside. It doesn’t matter, she won’t be involved.

Dan picks up the wine glass. Swilling the liquid around the bowl of it, he takes a sip, savouring the flavour. I resist the urge to kick him under the table. Instead, I force myself to smile whilst I sit opposite him, a neat, white tablecloth and a table full of food between us. I’d told him about the park. ‘So we’re due on the same day, would you believe!’

He smiles. ‘Unlikely that will actually happen.’

I frown slightly and tell him, ‘I know that, it was just nice to meet someone in the same boat as me.’

He says, ‘Yeah, sorry, of course. It’s cool though – like, what are the chances?’

‘Well, exactly. So then we went to Rosita’s.’

‘The café in the park?’

I nod. ‘She says she’s there most days.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I know, maybe we can hang out once the babies are born, they might be good ones that sit happily in the pram while we drink coffee and chat.’

He laughs. ‘You’ve got it all planned.’

I feel my face heat up. I must sound like an exuberant child: ‘I made a friend I made a friend.’

He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his and squeezes it. ‘It’s good, Ali. You’re right, it’ll be nice to have company. I’m sorry work’s so busy.’

‘It’s fine.’ I force a smile. ‘It’s a new job and, you know, we definitely need the income.’

He sighs, runs a hand over his face. ‘We really do.’

A faint glimmer of concern pushes a funny feeling up in my chest. I see years ahead of us, of this. I adore my job; it’s varied and challenging and I’ve done well. I now run the marketing and communications department for a small charity. Straight out of university, I’d been so excited when I’d initially interned there, later becoming a member of staff. ‘It will never pay the big bucks, but it’s my small chance to make a difference in the world.’ I’d meant it too, I still do, but the money isn’t amazing and is unlikely to increase by much. I’d joked that I would never earn enough to even start chipping away at my student loans. But things that seemed charming in our twenties when it was just us, living off noodles and full of hope, just seem a bit shit now. With our mortgage, another mouth to feed and the uncomfortable possibility that I might be better off unemployed.

Dan had loved my fresh-­faced idealism once. Now, I fear, he’s just worried that my pay cheque might not cover nursery fees and, after looking into it, I knew he was probably right.

‘I’ll ask Joanna for a raise,’ I say, ‘after my mat leave is finished.’

He nods. ‘Not a bad idea, or you could look at retraining. Teachers get all the school holidays, remember?’

I force another smile, nod my agreement, but just the thought of it makes me feel panicked. He gets my plate, puts another slice of frittata on it, the eggs like greasy, congealing rubber. The baby rolls in my stomach.

‘Don’t neglect your relationship,’ Mum had told me. ‘You’ve lucked out with Dan, you don’t want to give him any excuses.’

I make an mmm sound, keep smiling and murmur, ‘Thanks for cooking.’

‘Of course, I’m worried,’ he says, his brows knitting together, giving me a glimpse of how he might look in old age, ‘that you won’t eat properly while I’m away.’

I laugh. ‘I’ll be fine, I can cook for myself, you know,’ I say, keeping my voice playful.

‘Yeah, no, I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve ordered a Tesco shop for the morning after I leave.’

‘Right,’ I say, my voice tight.

‘Sorry.’ He grins. ‘I’m fussing, aren’t I?’

He is, and it drives me mad at times, but it comes from a nice place, I remind myself.

‘You’re away for three days, Dan.’ He’s heading to his company’s office in France to finish a software installation project that he ended up inheriting after the last guy in the role left suddenly. It is very much Dan’s chance to shine. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll eat well, even if it won’t be as nice as the food you make. Better still, I’ll watch Friends on repeat without you moaning.’

He smiles properly now and I feel a momentary triumph. ‘Are you looking forward to some solo time?’

‘I will miss you,’ I say. ‘But I’m about to not be on my own for quite a while.’

‘That is true.’

‘I’ll message Rebecca too, see if she wants to meet up. Maybe invite her over.’ I hadn’t got her number, I realise, but she said she walked at the park most days.

‘That sounds really great, Ali. And when I’m back let’s go for dinner, just the two of us. As you say, we’re going to have company soon.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ I murmur.

‘How about Friday night, could you book somewhere?’

I nod, though the thought of it, and the reality of how much things are about to change, hits me like a slap in the face.

 

He’s asleep within minutes and I waddle through to the baby’s room, which now has a new single bed in it that Dan had put together last night, ‘for when you’re nursing’. I’ve eaten too much and no matter what position I try to lie in, I can’t get comfortable. I give up, propping cushions behind me, perching my laptop on my knee. I go to Izzy’s Facebook page, scroll through her friends list and click on Max. He’s changed his profile picture, and as always when presented with a new image of him, I am startled. He looks the same: wide dark eyes, broad smile, hair still long, but shorter than it had been back then. I scroll through his page, which is mostly set to public. Him at Glastonbury, at gigs, in the middle of a field with his arm slung over her shoulders. She is, as ever, impossibly beautiful, stick thin. I go back to her page. Scurry through the information. Nothing new. Nothing less than outstanding. There are more pictures of her and Max. The baby shifts and I feel a different kind of sickness.

‘You couldn’t sleep, huh?’

I jump, shutting the lid, startled, and make myself smile at Dan. ‘It’s so hot.’

‘It is. Can I get you some water?’

‘Please.’

When he heads to the kitchen I open the laptop, click out of Facebook and shut the tab, opening Disney+ instead.

He’s back, handing me a glass with ice cubes that clink; I take it gratefully, pressing it to my cheek, between my too heavy breasts. ‘Almost there, Ali.’ He reaches out a hand, pushes aside my hair which hangs lank and damp around my face.

‘Yes.’ I smile, tears springing to my eyes at his tenderness. ‘Thank you,’ I half whisper.

He frowns. ‘What for?’

‘Being so nice. Getting up, checking on me, bringing me water.’

He laughs. ‘Of course. My job, Alison Cooper, is to make you happy.’

I put the laptop on the table beside me, the glass next to it, ice sweat beading on the outside and slipping down. I reach out my hand, cup his cheek. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ I tell him.

‘You do, of course you do.’ He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. Soft, gentle, familiar. He is, at his core, extremely sweet, my Dan. And loyal and cheerful even when things are tough. Even when I am tough, which is more often than I’d like. I married him for these qualities. We met at the start of my MA at a London university after a summer where I felt like everything had fallen apart. I’d been sad and lost, falling, and he’d caught me. He pulls me close now; I move my incredible bulk into the familiar spot where I fit just beneath his shoulder. ‘I love you, Dan.’

‘I love you too.’

3

I’m just here for a walk and some fresh air, I tell myself, but I find my eyes scouring the park, looking around the lake as I move, slow and laborious. She’d mentioned that she came here most days, ‘just to clear my head,’ she’d said, and I felt like I knew exactly what she meant. I’m leaving, worming my way through throngs of adult-­sized youths in stiff blazers with floppy hair. That means it’s after three and I’ve been here almost two hours, the sun beating down on me, high and oppressive.

‘Ali?’

I turn, and there she is. I feel an overwhelming sense of . . . relief?

I grin like an idiot on a first date. ‘Rebecca, fancy seeing you here!’

‘Fancy. Are you in a rush?’

I glance at my wristwatch, my skin puffed up on either side of it due to water retention. My ankles are the same around my socks, the compression stockings now utterly useless; I’ve solve. . .