I should have told Tom on day one. That’s the main thought that swirls around my brain as I sit in the police cell. My life is bisected by this terrible mistake – before Tom knew and after he found out. I could have sorted out the other difficulties, enormous as they were, if he’d been on my side, but I never gave him the chance. And he was so adamant back then, so sure of his own rightness.
‘Promise you’ll never deceive me, Erin.’ That’s what he said the night before our wedding. ‘I won’t be able to deal with it. Betray my trust just once and our marriage will be over.’
I could have – should have – told him then, but I was a coward. The registry office was booked, the reception organised, the honeymoon paid for. And most importantly, Oliver was already growing in my womb. I’d found someone who wanted to spend the rest of their life with me, who wanted to be a father to my child, and I didn’t want to risk it. I kept my mouth shut, and then it was too late.
The cell feels chilly, even though it’s warm and sunny outside. I lift the base of my spine from the bench, arching my back upwards to stretch out the pain. How long have I been waiting here? It must be several hours. Time is a moving object I can no longer keep hold of.
They’re gathering more evidence, I suppose. Or letting me sweat it out. They have twenty-four hours to question me, then they either have to charge me or let me go. Am I witness or suspect? The detective knows I’m lying, but he can’t work out why. If he asked me to go back to the beginning, the answer would be obvious and we’d have this wrapped up in a few minutes. But so far, he’s only asked about what happened this evening, between ten and eleven p.m.
I’m not going to help him. I’ll stick to my story, no matter what. I want them to charge me – I’m going to insist. It’s the only way I can atone for my real crime, even though I did nothing illegal all those years ago. Back then, giving my baby up for adoption seemed the right thing to do. I believed I was solving a problem, not compounding one. That’s how naïve I was. I never once thought about what might happen when the girl grew up.
It was my fortieth birthday and everything seemed under control. I was pleased with my new haircut, the low-carb diet had done the trick and the slinky dress I’d been persuaded to buy was no longer clinging to my midriff. Not too bad for my age, I thought as I studied myself in the wardrobe mirror.
We were having a party – a big one for a big birthday. I would have been perfectly happy to spend the day with just Tom and the kids. A meal at our local Italian, a trip to the cinema perhaps. But no, my husband insisted we had to celebrate with all our family and friends. I came up with loads of reasons why it wasn’t feasible. Pressures at work, the unpredictability of the weather at this time of year, lack of inside space, Oli’s revision schedule, my mixed feelings about hitting the big four-zero … Tom swept every one of them aside.
He was downstairs, masterminding proceedings, lapsing every so often into teacher mode. The kids were cooperating for once. Oli had put aside his history books and donned a shirt. Even Chloe hadn’t protested when I’d vetoed the torn-off shorts over purple fishnets. Outside, the sun was about to burst through the clouds and the wind had dropped. The party was happening, and to my surprise, I was feeling excited.
I didn’t do birthdays, as a rule. I told people I hated being the centre of attention and didn’t want them to make a fuss (although I sometimes felt hurt when they took me at my word). It was hard, pretending that I didn’t want people to show they loved me. Poor Tom couldn’t understand it; he called it a phobia and put it down to a fear of growing old. But it was nothing to do with that.
Other people’s birthdays were fine. Actually, they were a bit of an obsession of mine. I could reel off the birthdays of friends, relations, neighbours, colleagues, even people I hardly knew. I could be relied on to send flowers, cards and texts, and regularly brought doughnuts into work. It was my special talent, remembering everyone. I never needed reminders from Facebook.
It was obvious to me why I did it. I’d made a secret bargain with God. By celebrating everyone else’s birthday and refusing to celebrate my own, I was absolved from ignoring her birthday. I didn’t really ignore it, of course – that was impossible. As April approached every year, I felt anxious about flipping over the kitchen calendar, knowing the date was going to stare at me for four weeks, circled in heavy invisible pen. When the day dawned, the pain always came with it, as cold and incisive as a paper cut, but I kept it to myself.
As I applied the finishing touches to my make-up, I had no idea what fate had in store for me that afternoon. Everything was jogging along smoothly. A small team of caterers were beavering away in the kitchen, assembling tiny skewers, garnishing crostini and warming mini quiches. There was a heated marquee in the garden, accessed via the dining room. A hideous blue carpet had been laid over the grass; white plastic chairs were clustered around rickety tables adorned with floral arrangements. There were pink and silver balloons everywhere. It was like a wedding for one.
‘Mum! You coming down or what?’ It was Oli’s voice, deep and resonant although he was only just eighteen.
‘In a minute!’ I shouted back.
‘Dad says hurry up!’
‘I’m coming, okay?’
I squirted perfume behind my ears and on the inside of my wrists. The bedroom clock told me there were twelve minutes to kick-off. Someone was bound to arrive early and I needed to be at the door to hug and air-kiss, to gather up the inevitable boxes of chocolates and potted orchids. We’d said no presents on the invitations but I knew most people wouldn’t take any notice.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang and my stomach clenched, reminding me of when I was in labour with Chloe. There was a knot in her umbilical cord, and every time I had a contraction it tightened and her heart rate went down. That was how I felt then, as if somebody was squeezing the air out of me. I thought it was excitement, but maybe it was a premonition. I stood up and pushed my feet into my new pointy-toed shoes, already knowing I’d have blisters by the end of the day.
‘Wow!’ said Tom as I tottered down the stairs. ‘You look amazing.’
Our first guests smiled up at me from the hallway. I was handed a card and a bouquet of yellow freesias. ‘Oh, thank you, you shouldn’t have.’ I smelt the flowers appreciatively. ‘Please go through to the dining room – Oli will make sure you’ve got a drink and Chloe’s on coat duty.’
‘If we can drag her out of her room,’ muttered Tom as our neighbours shuffled out of earshot. ‘You girls are as bad as each other. God knows what she’s doing up there.’
‘Being a fourteen-year-old,’ I laughed. ‘Get me a glass of something, will you? Cola or elderflower. Oh, and a couple of canapés to settle my stomach, please.’
He gave me a quick kiss on the mouth. ‘No need to be nervous. You’re not a kid; you’re properly grown-up now.’
‘Middle-aged, you mean.’
‘Not at all. People are living into their nineties these days, which means you’re about five years off.’ He winked as he walked away. I wanted to run after him, to give him an extra kiss, but the doorbell rang again.
I flung open the door to be greeted by a sea of familiar faces: Asha and Holly – the Girls; Asha’s husband Joe; Hilary, who manages my nursery business, and her partner Rebecca; Mark and Steve, who play five-a-side football with Tom, and their wives, whose names I’d forgotten. Everyone was arriving at once.
‘Woo-hoo! It’s the birthday girl!’ screamed Asha. Hilary waved a bottle of champagne – a strange choice when she knew I didn’t drink.
‘I was told this was a fortieth,’ added Joe smoothly, ‘but you don’t look a day over twenty-one.’
‘Oh shut up, for God’s sake.’ I slapped his arm playfully as he crossed the threshold. ‘Come in, everybody, lovely to see you! Mwah! Mwah!’
The knots in my stomach loosened as I realised it was going to be okay. And it was more than okay; it was really enjoyable. For the next two hours, anyway …
It was around four and the party was still buzzing. Hundreds of canapés had been consumed and the utility room was overflowing with empty bottles. Ribbons of conversation wound across the room, fastened with bows of sudden laughter. I’d abandoned my agonising shoes a while ago and was drifting barefoot from group to group, hugging everyone and pretending I could hear what they were saying.
It was wonderful to see so many of my people all in the same place. At one end, there were the girls from work, who were dancing in the marquee to our favourite nineties hits, waving their wine glasses and stopping every so often to pose for a selfie. At the other, there was Tom’s mum and two of her elderly sisters, who had escaped to the lounge and were wedged together on the sofa, gossiping and drinking tea. In between were our various friends, gathered over the years like crops from different fields. Tom’s university mates, women from the mother-and-baby group I’d joined when Oli was born, local acquaintances, a smattering of neighbours. Asha and Holly, of course.
No extended family on my side. I’d been waiting for somebody to remark on it, and already had my excuses prepared. ‘My parents live a long way away … They don’t like big gatherings … I’m going to visit them soon for our own celebration.’ All lies – well, at least the last two. Mum and Dad moved out of my childhood home and retired to Cornwall a few years ago. I had their address and a phone number, but both sides understood they were only to be used in emergencies.
Asha and Holly were sitting at one of the plastic tables, talking too intently for a party. It looked like Asha was giving Holly some counselling. Joe had gone in search of more wine, which I thought was probably a bad idea. When Holly was pissed, she spiralled into rants of self-loathing. She had been planning to bring her new chap today, but he’d ducked out at the last minute. Holly was divorced and childless, which she felt particularly bitter about.
I tried to work out the content of their conversation from their body language. Asha got up and patted Holly on the head before stepping into the house, presumably heading for the downstairs loo.
‘Hi, how you doing?’ Tom appeared at my side as if from nowhere.
‘Great. I’ve eaten too many chorizo puffs, but hey …’
‘Sorry I haven’t seen you. I’ve been circulating. He rubbed my back thoughtfully. ‘Want a dance? Oli’s done a great job with the playlist. It’s all our fave raves.’
‘Maybe later. I haven’t talked to the Girls yet. Poor Holly was stood up. She nearly didn’t come today – can you believe it? I feel I ought to relieve Asha, you know.’
‘Just don’t neglect your other guests. If you want me, I’ll be on the dance floor, chatting up your nursery girls.’
‘You dare!’
He kissed me and disappeared into the heaving marquee. I was summoning up some words of comfort for Holly along the lines of ‘Who needs men anyway?’ when Asha returned.
Ah … the Moment. There should have been a crack of thunder, the voice of God booming above the party music. But my destiny arrived in a small red envelope.
‘I found this on the doormat,’ Asha said. ‘A birthday card, I guess. Hand-delivered.’
‘That’s weird. Why didn’t they knock?’
‘It’s probably a neighbour, having a dig about not being invited.’
‘But we asked practically the whole street. Tom insisted. He said it would stop us getting complaints.’
Asha shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe it dropped out of a present? Anyway, I’d better go back to Holly. She’s not in a good place.’
‘I’ll come over in a sec.’ Asha thanked me and threaded her way back to the table. Without a second thought, I ripped open the envelope and took out a birthday card. I stared at the champagne glass overflowing with bubbles and the silver ‘40’ in the top corner. But it was the message inside that made my heart jump into my throat.
Happy birthday, Mum!
With love from the girl you gave away xxx
I’m in the park with Asha, Holly and a thousand other teenagers. My ears are buzzing, the sound system is beating through my ribcage; I can sense the touch and smell of strangers’ sweaty bodies as we jump up and down to the music, fist-pumping the air, screaming with dry throats.
We’re watching Acacia Drive: three lads who used to go to our school and who are now – miraculously – all over the indie charts. They’ve come home to headline Summerfest, a weekend celebration in the local municipal park: puppet shows, kids’ art workshops, food stalls, clowns, jugglers, street artists, storytellers and musicians, all culminating in a free live concert on a proper outdoor stage. It’s the first time anything even remotely exciting has happened in Camford, a boring market town plonked in the middle of even more boring Essex countryside.
To begin with, Mum and Dad said I couldn’t go to the Sunday gig. It was on too late, I was too young, it would be overcrowded, there would be pickpockets and drug-taking and nasty people in the bushes waiting to leap out and attack me. And most crucial of all, I had school the next day.
I argued my case. It was nearly the end of the summer term, lessons were winding down, it wasn’t an exam year and we were talking about a concert in the local park, not Glastonbury. But they wouldn’t relent, no matter how hard I tried to reassure them. As the weekend approached, things were looking shaky for me. Asha and Holly were going, as were loads of other people in my class. Basically, anyone even a tiny bit cool would be there. If I didn’t turn up, I’d have the piss taken out of me all summer.
But luckily Asha’s dad came to the rescue, offering to give the three of us a lift to the park and pick us up at ten p.m. sharp when the concert’s scheduled to end. It was a stroke of genius. If Asha’s parents, who are even more obsessed with homework and good grades than mine, were happy to let their fourteen-year-old daughter off the leash for one evening, mine couldn’t argue.
I smuggled out some party clothes and spent the afternoon at Holly’s house getting ready – we did each other’s hair, nails and make-up and I borrowed a pair of her heels. Then we tottered off to Asha’s. Her dad was a bit shocked when we turned up at the house all dolled up, though he didn’t say anything, just herded the three of us into his car and drove us into town.
But we’ve made it, we’re actually here. We push and shove our way forward to get a decent view. The support band were a bit dull, but Acacia Drive are amazing. I keep trying to imagine them as third years, wearing the Greenfield uniform, running down the corridors or playing football in the yard … It wasn’t that long ago and now they’re famous. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
People raise lighters in the air like it’s a real pop concert, and I start to notice a group of older lads standing close by. One of them – the best-looking one and therefore the leader – is watching me. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as I jiggle my hips and wave my arms above my head. Every time I turn around, he’s staring at me, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
‘Want some?’ he calls out, raising a supermarket-sized bottle of mineral water.
‘Yeah, ta, I’m gasping.’ I grab the bottle off him and take a long, enthusiastic swig. But it’s not water, it’s alcohol. Vodka, I guess, mixed with something. I try not to cough. Whatever I’ve just drunk, it’s set the back of my throat on fire, but I style it out, pretending I knew what it was all along. I take another gulp and let the alcohol rush into my veins.
‘Finish it if you like,’ he says, his eyes flickering over me and coming to rest on the thin line of sweat running between my breasts. I laugh and keep hold of the bottle, sipping from it while I dance, drifting ever closer to him. Sensible Asha gives me a bit of a warning look, but I pretend not to notice.
It’s nearly ten, our curfew, but the concert is at its height. The lead vocalist is strutting across the stage, leaning forward to grab girls’ hands. My body is a drum. The light show sends coloured pulses through my brain.
‘We’d better go,’ says Asha. ‘Don’t want to get caught in the crush.’
‘Okay … Come on, Erin.’ Holly taps me on the arm. As I spin round to face her, my head takes a split second to catch up.
‘But it’s not over yet,’ I moan, looking longingly towards the stage. We don’t have to run out of the park like three Cinderellas, surely. I’ve emptied the bottle of secret vodka and am feeling deliciously rebellious. ‘Your dad won’t mind waiting.’
‘He said ten o’clock on the dot; that was the deal.’ Asha looks anxious. ‘Please, Erin.’
‘Okay, okay …’ I roll my eyes with annoyance and, throwing down the bottle, stomp after the two of them as they weave through the crowd towards the exit. After a few yards, a hand grabs mine and I turn sharply. It’s the guy who gave me the vodka; the guy who’s been staring at me all evening.
‘Don’t go,’ he shouts above the music. ‘The night has only just started.’
The vodka sings in my head; I feel my limbs softening, my hand weakening in his grasp. ‘But I prom—’ I start to say before my words are drowned in whooping applause. The band has announced that this is going to be their last number. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ the alcohol says, and the next thing I know, he has his tongue down my throat.
I sense the park emptying around us, snatches of chatter and laughter floating past. The temperature suddenly drops, and when I came up for air, the sky looks vast and full of stars. My head is spinning, and I stumble in Holly’s silver sandals as he leads me over to a tree, propping me up against its rough bark. The snogging is hungry, almost brutal. His stubble scrapes against my soft young skin. He starts to fiddle with the buttons on my top, but I put my hands on his and whisper, ‘Not here.’
‘How old are you?’ he asks, pulling back and scrutinising my face. The sweat has wiped most of my make-up off.
‘Sixteen,’ I say, quickly adding two years. He looks at least twenty.
‘What’s your name, princess?’
‘Erin.’ He kisses me again. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’ he replies in a tone that implies I must surely know. ‘Dean. Dean Philips.’ I smile and nod, but the name means nothing to me.
‘Better go,’ I say woozily. ‘Friends … waiting …’
‘Nah, they’ll have given up by now.’
How long do we kiss under the tree? Ten minutes? Half an hour? His mates are standing in a group about twenty yards away, scuffing the ground, hands in pockets, looking restless. There are a few stragglers still wandering out of the park, a team of litter-pickers in yellow vests spearing rubbish and putting it into bin liners. On the stage, hefty guys in black T-shirts are dismantling the lights and packing the speakers into large shiny boxes.
‘Gotta go …’ I try to peel myself off the tree trunk. Is Asha’s dad still waiting for me, or has he already driven off? He’ll tell my parents that I failed to turn up. What if Dad jumps in the car and comes to find me – drags me out of the park like a lost toddler? It would be utterly humiliating, especially in front of Dean. What if Mum calls the police?
The euphoria is starting to wear off and I’m feeling sick. I have to find the others or get a bus. Either way, I’m already in a whole heap of trouble.
‘Sorry … need to go.’
‘You’ll never make it in that state,’ Dean says. ‘We’ll take you home.’ He clicks his fingers at his mates, who jog up obediently. ‘Gary? Bring the car round, will yer? Kid needs a lift.’
Gary – tall, skinny, face pockmarked with acne – rattles his keys in reply. I know he’s drunk at least as much vodka as me, and has to be over the limit, but there’s nothing I can do. I need to get home, and fast.
I stagger out of the park, supported by Dean, who is holding me so strongly around the waist he almost lifts me off the ground. His friends walk ahead, shoving each other jokily, making lewd comments under their breath that I don’t understand. But I don’t feel scared; I feel safe. Dean is the boss and he’s taking care of me.
Gary’s Ford Mondeo is parked up on the grass verge a few hundred yards away. Dean opens the door and I clamber into the back. Another guy, who I later find out is called Mark, gets in on the other side, deliberately squeezing up so that our thighs touch. I am the filling in their man sandwich.
I tell them the name of my street and we set off. Gary swings the car around the corners, slamming on the brakes at the last moment and accelerating through amber lights. Dean keeps one arm around me the whole way, his other hand stroking my thigh. He gnaws at my neck, sucking vampire-like at my tender flesh. I feel Mark’s body tense and his leg press against mine, but he doesn’t dare do anything else. I’m Dean’s plaything; not for sharing.
The car smells of sweat and fags. Gary puts on some loud music and they wind the windows down. Mark drums his hands on the back of the front passenger seat, and the guy sitting there – I’ve forgotten his name – tells him to cut it out.
‘Drop me off here,’ I say, as we reach the top of Coleridge Close. We live at the very end and I don’t want Gary attempting a three-point turn outside our house.
Dean opens the door and gets out. I shuffle along the seat and fall onto the pavement. As the fresh air hits me, I think I’m going to throw up right in front of him.
‘You’re well tanked,’ he laughs, as he heaves me upright and sets me against the side of the Mondeo, where he gives me a final grope. ‘We hang out most nights in the Craven Arms on Main Street – know it?’ I nod. ‘Come and find me, yeah? Soon.’
‘Okay. Thanks for the lift.’
‘A pleasure, princess. Mind how you go.’
He stands back and releases me. I search for my balance and stagger down the road towards home. I’m so unsteady, I daren’t look back for fear of falling over again, but I hear the car door slam and the Mondeo screeching away.
The downstairs lights are still on. My mother must have been looking out of the window, because she opens the door as soon as I step onto the front path.
‘Erin,’ she growls. ‘Get inside, now. Your father’s out looking for you. He’s furious.’
As I cross the threshold, I instantly sober up. ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ I protest. ‘I got lost in the crowd. I went looking for them but they’d gone. They didn’t wait for me.’
She slaps me across the cheek. ‘Don’t you lie! I know what you’ve been up to. You stink of booze and your mascara’s all smudged. You look like a tart. You’re not to leave this house for the next two weeks, do you hear me? Now get upstairs.’
I crawl up to my room, ears singing, head spinning. I don’t care about my punishment – at this moment, it seems worth it. All I can think about is Dean, kissing me, touching me, calling me princess. I’m going to find a way to escape the house and meet him at the Craven Arms. He wants to see me there. He’s expecting me.
My heart was beating furiously in my chest and I felt faint. I had to get away from the party and up to my bedroom. The birthday card hung between my fingers like a dead thing. I wanted to drop it, but I didn’t dare. I wanted to destroy it, but I couldn’t. Even though my legs felt like they’d been shackled with heavy weights, I dragged myself into the hallway and started climbing the stairs.
Tom must have seen me leaving the room, because he followed me out. ‘Darling? Where are you going? We’re about to do the cake!’
‘Give me a few minutes. I need to … um … different shoes.’ My words grated against the back of my throat. I was terrified he’d ask why I was gripping a red envelope as if my life depended on it, but perhaps he hadn’t spotted it.
I made it to the bedroom and locked the door. My stomach churned as I sank onto the bed. I didn’t have much time to pull myself together. Tom had let me retreat for now, but he wouldn’t allow me to hide for long.
My head was bursting with questions. How had she known where to find me? Why had she chosen my fortieth birthday, of all days, to reveal herself? It was as if she’d thrown a hand grenade into the house, designed to explode in front of family and friends and destroy my celebrations. Why had she done that?
I started to feel angry, but then realised I was looking at it from entirely the wrong point of view. She would have no way of knowing that she was a huge dark secret. She probably thought she was giving me a wonderful surprise – the best birthday present of all.
My fingers shaking, I opened the envelope again and took out the card, examining it for clues about the young woman who’d sent it to me. I still couldn’t comprehend that this was my girl, my grown-up daughter …
In my imagination, she was still a tiny baby. I remembered how pink and squashy she’d looked, with puffy bags under her eyes and wrinkles like an old woman. She was seven weeks premature, very small and underweight. The midwife put her into my arms for no more than a couple of seconds before they whisked her away to the special care baby unit.
I visited her a couple of times the next day; just stood and stared at her through the glass of her crib, unable to compute that she had come out of my body. She looked like a little alien thing, barely human, mine and yet not mine at all. My hormones were all over the place; I was exhausted and sore, not thinking straight. But what was there to think about? The decision had already been made. I was going to be discharged later that day and would never see her again.
She was lying in just her nappy and a pink woolly hat that kept falling over her eyes. There were sticky pads on her chest and an intravenous drip in one tiny arm, which was splinted. She was plugged into a machine that bleeped, flashing numbers and wavy coloured lines. I didn’t understand what any of it meant. A few times she made a sudden movement and set the alarm off. I thought she was about to die, but nobody else seemed worried, and eventually a nurse came over and pressed the reset button.
The crib had two portholes, and the other mums would open the little doors and put their hands inside to change their baby’s nappy or even just strok. . .
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