The Wrong Mother

by Charlotte Duckworth

Genres: Domestic Thrillers

Synopsis

One mother on the run.
A safe place to hide.
But you can't escape the past forever . . .

Faye is 39 and single. She's terrified she may never have the one thing she always wanted: a child of her own.

Then she discovers a co-parenting app: Acorns. For men and women who want to have a baby, but don't want to do it alone. When she meets Louis through it, it feels as though the fates have aligned.

But just one year later, Faye is on the run from Louis, with baby Jake in tow. In desperate need of a new place to live, she contacts Rachel, who's renting out a room in her remote Norfolk cottage. It's all Faye can afford - and surely she'll be safe from Louis there?

But is Rachel the benevolent landlady she pretends to be? Or does she have a secret of her own?

'Pulse-pounding' LOUISE MUMFORD
'The perfect thriller' EMILY FREUD

HEAR WHAT EVERYONE'S SAYING ABOUT CHARLOTTE DUCKWORTH'S NOVELS:

'Smart, compulsively readable and with an end you won't see coming' Woman & Home

'Surprising and original' Lesley Kara

'A real thrill ride' Heat

'I love Charlotte's dark, messy takes on modern relationships' Claire McGowan

'A taut, chilling read with a killer twist' Sun

'Tense, twisty and deeply unsettling' BP Walter

'Unpredictable, tense and engrossing' Rebecca Fleet

'A writer at the top of her thriller game' Louise Mumford

Release date: December 14, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Faye

Jake is screaming and everyone in this Tube carriage is staring at us.

Of course they are. I would be staring too, if I wasn’t the one with the screaming baby.

‘Shh, shh,’ I whisper, cradling him to me. Why won’t he stop crying? I’ve made him a makeshift sling from my scarf, and have tucked him inside so that he’s close to my chest. I read somewhere that the sound of your heartbeat is meant to soothe them. It’s supposed to be familiar, as it’s what they heard in the womb.

But it’s not working. He’s not happy and won’t stop screaming.

‘It’s OK, little one,’ I say, glancing up at the Tube map. Four more stops to Morden. But then what? My heart isn’t beating, it’s racing – no wonder it isn’t calming him. ‘It’s OK. Not much longer, I promise.’

‘Sounds hungry.’

I turn to see a middle-­aged woman peering up at us from the disabled seat.

I nod. Of course. Of course he’s hungry.

‘Here,’ she says, standing up. ‘Have my seat. Poor thing. You both look worn out.’

I smile without meeting her eyes, and sink down into the seat. I don’t like talking to strangers. I don’t much like talking to anyone.

It quietens him a little. Perhaps he didn’t like the vibrations of the train while I was standing. Or the noise.

‘What’s his name?’ she says, leaning down as she holds on to the handrail. The train hurtles through the tunnel.

‘Oh,’ I say, pausing. I look up, but I can only focus on her chin. ‘Jake. His name’s Jake.’

‘He’s a little cutie,’ she says. She’s smiling. ‘Is he your first?’

I nod.

‘Don’t worry, it gets easier. Mine are now sixteen and eighteen and don’t want anything to do with me! I know it can feel all-­consuming at this age though.’

I smile again because I know that’s what she expects, and I look down at Jake. He yawns, his cries finally quieting. I exhale slowly. My heartbeat starts to slow. The relief.

‘How old is he?’

‘Oh,’ I say, racking my brains. ‘Um, three weeks. He’s three weeks old.’

‘Oh gosh, he really is box-­fresh, then. Bless his heart.’

I nod. Box-­fresh. As though you could just buy a baby and have it delivered the next day.

Jake yawns again in my arms. Has he worn himself out?

‘Are you . . .’ the woman continues. ‘Sorry to ask, but are you OK? You seem a little jumpy. I wouldn’t normally ask, it’s just I’m a mental health nurse, and . . .’

‘What?’ I say, staring up at her. I feel like everyone in the carriage is looking at me again.

Look at her. What a terrible mother. She doesn’t even have a proper sling for her baby. Can’t even remember how old he is.

‘Sorry,’ she says, sliding into the now empty seat next to me. With alarm, I see her reach out a hand, as though she might pat me on the arm, but then she thinks better of it. ‘I don’t want to pry. It’s just such a difficult time, having a newborn. It can be a real shell shock. But there’s lots of help and support out there, if only you ask for it. I know that it can feel like everyone else is on top of things and you’re falling behind, but honestly, everyone feels this way . . .’

She won’t stop talking. Why won’t she stop talking? I want to cover my ears with my hands, but I can’t because I’m holding Jake.

She puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘So really, my question is: are you OK?’ she says. ‘He’ll be fine, you know. He is fine.’

I find myself staring at her. My eyes struggle to focus on her face. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that her thoughts about me aren’t good. Distrust. Suspicion. She’s thinking, that baby deserves better than this woman. I don’t like it. My heart is hammering in my chest again and I feel sick.

Slowly, I shake my head.

‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m . . .’

I glance down at Jake, his tiny red face now sealed shut, as though he’s given up, accepted his fate.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been a difficult time.’

I swallow. Her eyes are wide now. She’s looking at me the same way Hannah does sometimes.

‘We’re . . . we’re on the run from his father,’ I say, closing my eyes. I take a gulp of the musty air inside the Tube. ‘He’s . . . he’s a very bad man and we need to get away from him.’

Faye

Jake starts screaming again the second we get out of the Underground. He must be starving. What have I done? How could I be so stupid, not to think about his feeding routine?

I didn’t have time to think. I just had to take him and go. I was terrified Louis would come back.

I’m still terrified now. I can’t stop glancing behind me as I march towards the tiny supermarket opposite the station, in case I’m being followed.

Inside, I make my way to the baby aisle. I grab some ready-­mixed milk and take it to the counter. I took Jake’s changing bag when I ran but didn’t realise the only bottle inside was empty. Jake screams the entire time and I find myself keeping my head down, terrified that if I look up and see anyone staring at us, I’ll start to cry.

The woman from the Tube gave me her number and told me to call any time. She also gave me a leaflet about a domestic abuse charity. But I won’t be needing that. It’s too late now.

The man behind the counter looks at me suspiciously as he scans my items. Jake’s piercing screams ring out across the shop.

‘He’s just hungry,’ I say, trying to smile, make light of it. What would Hannah say? ‘I was a bit disorganised this morning.’

The man raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t care. I wish he would hurry up.

People don’t care about you as much as you think they do – that’s what I learnt ages ago. But I keep forgetting. I keep worrying about what people think of me. But they’re all wrapped up in their own lives.

‘That will be £11.79,’ he says, pushing my groceries towards me. I try to shove them in my rucksack, but it’s difficult with Jake still screaming in my ear, and I’m worried he’ll fall out of the sling.

The woman in the queue behind me tuts.

‘Um, sorry,’ I say. My cheeks are burning now, but I hurriedly yank my purse out from the front pocket of my rucksack and tap my card against the reader.

‘Thanks,’ I say, but the man doesn’t even acknowledge me, handing me my receipt without saying a word.

Jake sounds as though he’s about to pass out from the screaming. A word drifts into my mind. Puce. A colour I never thought I’d see a child go.

I’m failing him already.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, as soothingly as possible. It’s difficult to calm him down when I’m feeling just as stressed as he is. But that’s my job, as his mother. What would Hannah do? ‘It’s OK, sweetheart. Really. Not much longer.’ I kiss the top of his little head.

It’s an eight-­minute walk home and I practically sprint back, slamming the door behind us. We should be safe now, thank God.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Somehow I always end up making a mess out of everything.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, feeling a little calmer now as I settle myself on my sofa and take the exhausted baby out from my sling. ‘It’s OK, Jake, I’ve got some milk for you.’

I unscrew the top of the bottle and peel the seal off the teat, screwing it onto the bottle.

He slurps gratefully, the scarlet colour draining from his face as quickly as the milk from the bottle.

‘That’s better, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ I coo, stroking him on the head. His eyes remain closed while he drinks, and eventually he falls asleep, his lips no longer sucking hungrily on the bottle. He’s drunk nearly the entire thing.

I sit for a few minutes, just gazing at his wrinkled little face, the tiny trickle of milk that has dribbled down his chin. He’s so beautiful. So precious. A gift.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. But this is how it is now. And I’ll have to make the most of it.

Rachel

I’ll miss Kylie.

Of course, some of her habits grated on me in the end, as they all do. She was never off her phone, for a start. If not tapping and tapping at the bloody thing, then screeching nonsense down it to her various friends. She often complained about the Wi-­Fi speed – oh, Rach, you really should upgrade, they have fibre in the village now, you know!

I only had the internet installed a few years ago – so that I can keep in touch with Brian in Australia – and for all its convenience, it still leaves me a little uneasy. We shouldn’t be so readily contactable. It’s not necessary.

Even so, Kylie baked a good cake. And she amused me with all her stories.

I look down at my nails. The last manicure she did for me has seen better days. But I don’t have any of the things I need to remove it.

‘Rach,’ she said, as she filed each nail into a perfect ‘squoval’ – a square-­oval apparently, the most suitable shape for someone of my age. Kylie had talons. Secretly, I coveted them. ‘Your nails are amazing. So strong!’

I had smiled at the compliment. I have always kept myself fit and healthy. Strong hair, strong nails, strong bones, strong constitution.

But Kylie’s gone now.

I stand there for a few moments, listening to the silence.

Never mind.

I wipe the windowsill with a damp cloth. When I lift the cloth up again, it’s black with grime. Clearly, Kylie didn’t clean her room once the whole time she was living here. I sigh. I’ll have to steam-­clean the carpet too.

And then, when that’s done, I’ll get the new advert up. The sooner the room is rented again, the better. And this time, I’ll try to find someone who’s a bit older. Someone who doesn’t make me feel quite so out of touch.

I don’t much like being in here, even though it’s the bigger of the two bedrooms, so I work as quickly as possible. It’ll always be Mother and Father’s bedroom to me.

I take down the curtains and fold them neatly into the washing machine, and then I spend the rest of the afternoon moving the furniture into the middle of the room, so that I can thoroughly clean the carpet.

It’s the best invention, my SmartWash vacuum cleaner. Part vacuum, part mop, it kills up to 99 per cent of bacteria, automatically dispensing the perfect amount of water and cleaning solution as you go. So clever.

Not all modern technology is bad.

By the time I’m finished, the room is sparkling and I am exhausted. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted.

I cut myself a slice of Battenberg and make a cup of Yorkshire tea, then sit in the armchair in the bay window downstairs, looking out across the village green.

Not much going on today. It’s nearly Halloween. I’ll sit with the lights off, as usual, to make sure no kids try it on.

In my day, trick-­or-­treating was seen as a disgusting American custom. But it seems to have caught on over here, lately.

Don’t we have enough of our own traditions, without taking on theirs too?

I shake my head. The world is an annoying place. It was annoying when I was young, and it seems to get more annoying with every year that passes.

I make my way over to the small desk in the alcove and switch on the big black tower underneath.

It takes my computer a good ten minutes to gee itself up these days. Kylie had laughed at it, called it an ancient relic.

I didn’t like that. When she laughed at me.

‘It’s perfectly serviceable,’ I snapped. ‘It does everything I need it to do.’

‘You could spend some of my rent getting yourself a laptop, you know,’ she replied, but I turned away from her, resisting the urge to tell her that I didn’t appreciate her lip.

Eventually, the yellowing screen on my desk flickers into life and I log on to the World Wide Web, checking my emails first. Nothing of interest there. Just lots of tempting marketing emails from chocolate companies. My one vice.

I move them to the little bin icon methodically, then I bring up the page for rentaroom.com.

Nigel told me about this site. I’d always put up an ad in the local newsagents before, but at one of our meetings, he told me about advertising online.

‘You’ll get a much greater variety of lodgers to pick from that way,’ he said.

Annoyingly, he was right.

I log into my account, copying the password from the Post-­it note stuck on the screen, and pull up my previous advert. There’s a big button that says ‘Duplicate’, so I click on that, wait for the screen to load itself again, and then check over the ad carefully.

 

Bright and spacious double bedroom now available in my immaculate cottage in the centre of Helston village. You will be sharing with me, a 64-­year-­old female and the homeowner. Looking for someone clean and tidy. Non-­smoker.

Shared kitchen and luxury bathroom (recently refitted).

All bills included. Bus stop five minutes away.

No students. No time-­wasters.

£450 per month. Available immediately.

 

I pause at the last bit. Obviously, Kylie’s departure was unexpected. I hope that doesn’t look suspicious.

I sit back in my chair. I suppose if anyone asks, I can just say she ran out of money and had to move out in a hurry.

It’ll be fine. No one from the village has asked after her yet. The ambulance came late at night – I don’t think many people even noticed.

And anyway, people have short-­term memories. They’re all so busy, wrapped up in their own lives.

I publish the advert, and then move to the dining table to work on my jigsaw.

It’ll be interesting to see who I get this time.

Faye

It’s only a matter of time before Louis will be here, hammering on my door, demanding I hand Jake back.

I won’t let him. I can’t do it. Jake belongs with me.

I lay him down on my bed and search the wardrobe until I eventually unearth my suitcase, covered in dust.

A change is as good as a rest. That’s what they say.

I’ve never liked change.

I cram things into the suitcase, unthinking. I grab my passport from the drawer in my bedside table before realising it’s out of date. Never mind. I sling it in anyway, along with the wedding photo I keep beside my bed, and my medication.

I pause, one hand on the blue velvet dress hanging in my wardrobe. I can’t bear to leave it, so, even though it will take up too much space, I carefully fold it in half and put it on top of everything else in the suitcase.

Then I lie down on the floor and grapple around in the dust underneath the bed, drawing out the metal safe with difficulty. I tap in the combination and wait for it to open.

Here’s all the money I have saved from years of being paid cash-­in-­hand. My father was big on having cash in the house. He didn’t like the idea of using a card to pay for things.

‘You don’t want people tracking your every move, Faye,’ he said. ‘It’s none of their business.’

It was also illegal, I knew. To take this cash and not declare it. I have no idea how much there is – I wasn’t intent on tax-­evading, I just never quite got around to paying it into a bank.

Perhaps I’m more like my father than I want to admit.

But even so, I’m grateful now. For this. My life’s savings. Here, when I need it most. I count it quickly and tuck it into my pouch.

I pull out all the baby clothes and bits I bought for Jake and shove them in the lid of the suitcase, zipping the whole thing shut and pulling it onto its side.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me that it’s 11.45am. I have a lesson at 12pm – one of my adult students. I have to be gone before they arrive.

I take one last look around, whispering a pathetic apology to my houseplants.

My flat. It’s a sorry state of affairs. All I have to show for myself after forty years of life. One grotty, dark basement, that doesn’t even belong to me.

I’m reminded of my childhood home. The stench, the mess. I swore I would do better, that I wouldn’t end up living like that, but I have.

I imagine someone breaking in in a few weeks’ time. My neighbour perhaps. Or my landlord. Wondering what’s become of me. They might expect to find me curled up on the sofa, dead. Flies buzzing and feasting on my remains.

But instead, they’ll find an empty apartment. Breakfast dishes in the sink. Dirty washing in the basket. A home frozen in time.

How long before anyone realises I’ve gone? Will anyone even care?

I feel a stab of guilt about Jonas. He will care. He will wonder. But I can’t risk sharing my plan with him.

And Hannah. I can’t think about her yet.

I go over to the piano. It’s too much, the thought of leaving it. But what choice do I have? It’s that or baby Jake.

I stroke the lid one last time. It’s a John Broadwood upright. The case is rosewood with inlaid marquetry. It’s the most valu­able thing I own and I never thought we would be parted.

‘I’ll come back for you one day, I promise,’ I whisper to it, but I know it’s a promise I can’t keep.

How could Louis do this to me? How could he put me in this situation?

I feel tears threatening to emerge and I pull myself together. I have to be strong. For Jake. It’s too late to go back now. Jake squirms in my arms, opening his eyes briefly and looking up at me.

I can get another piano. I can’t get another baby.

And anyway, I have no choice. I have to go, before Louis finds me. Because God knows what he would do to me if he did.

My stomach is turning over.

I have no choice.

‘You have no choice,’ I say out loud to myself. ‘No going back.’

But even so, as I close the door on my little flat – my life, my whole world up until now – I find myself looking back at the piano one last time, and I feel like my heart might break.

 

Outside the station, I withdraw as much money as I’m allowed from my current account. Then, I take the Tube back into town. Jake is well fed now, and happy. He sleeps soundly against my chest, tucked in my makeshift sling.

If anyone looked over at us, they might think I was a bit of a hippy, given my slightly disordered state, and the fact I’m wearing sunglasses and a beanie, but they wouldn’t suspect a thing.

They wouldn’t suspect that I was on the run from his father, or that I have just left behind everything I’ve ever known.

The beanie isn’t much of a disguise, but it covers my hair, and will hopefully make it more difficult to spot me on CCTV.

For the first time ever, I’m grateful to be anonymous-­looking, invisible. My whole life it’s felt as though people have looked through me, rather than at me.

I need a plan now. I acted so hastily this morning – on impulse, driven by heart, not head. Now is the time for calm and clear thinking. The most important thing is that I get as far out of London as possible. Somewhere – anywhere – that he wouldn’t think of.

I remember a great-aunt on my father’s side. She had a little cottage in a tiny village in Norfolk. Perhaps I could go there, for now.

What was the village called? Hel-­something. Helston? Yes, that was it.

I’ll go to Helston.

A tingle of something like excitement rushes through me as I queue in Boots at King’s Cross station, waiting to pay for nappies and more ready-­mixed milk. But then I see someone out of the corner of my eye that stops me short. That slick of blond hair, the same Roman nose.

It can’t be him, can it? He can’t have found me already?

Please no.

I feel sick with nerves, unable to risk looking round in case it is him and he spots me. I keep my head bent low, hoping the beanie is providing some camouflage, and look down at Jake. My darling son. He looks so sweet and peaceful, tucked up against me.

I kiss him on the top of his head. I feel a wave of what feels like love. Oxytocin, that’s what they call it. The bonding hormone.

The shop fills with more people and I risk a glance to my side. But there’s no sign of Louis, or even the blond man I thought I’d seen.

It wasn’t him.

I feel my breath slacken.

‘We’re going to be just fine, you and me,’ I say to his tiny pink head, trying to make myself believe it. His eyelids flicker in his sleep.

I’m going to have to be careful with money though. With the cash I withdrew and the money from my cash box, I have nearly ten thousand pounds in my pouch, but I’m not sure how long that will last.

The train ticket up to Norfolk is more expensive than I expected. The woman behind the Perspex screen in the ticket office frowns at me when I ask how much Jake’s ticket costs.

‘It’s a baby,’ she says, looking at me as though I’m insane. ‘They get free travel until they turn five. Which looks like a bit of a way off.’

‘Oh, right, yes,’ I say, giving a fake laugh. ‘Of course. Silly me. It’s the sleep deprivation, you know . . .’

She rolls her eyes at me and I feel stupid. But it doesn’t matter.

I get onto the train as soon as it comes in, walking the full length of the platform to the final carriage. I’m desperate to get away from the busy concourse to somewhere quiet. Hopefully, fewer people will notice us here.

I feed Jake again as the train rolls out of the station. He’s awake for a few minutes, gazing without focus as the train travels through a tunnel. Thankfully, it’s early afternoon and the train is almost empty, so I don’t have to deal with anyone commenting on my parenting skills, or lack of.

I have never felt so little confidence in my life. But I know one thing for certain: I love this little boy with all my heart, and I will do anything to keep him safe.

 

It’s dark by the time the train pulls into King’s Lynn. What was I thinking? I’ll never get to Helston today. I’ll have to check into a hotel here, and then make my way there in the morning.

I left my mobile phone at home. I couldn’t risk the police tracing it. I watched a documentary once, about missing people. The first twenty-­four hours are critical. After that, it gets more and more difficult to find them.

I have twenty-­four hours to disappear with my baby.

I haven’t been to King’s Lynn since I was a small child, and I have no idea where anything is. So I leave the station and cross the road and go into the first hotel I see.

Thankfully, they have space. I’m exhausted from carrying Jake and pulling my heavy suitcase behind me.

‘Would you like a cot in the room?’ the receptionist asks me, smiling at the bundle against my chest.

‘Yes, please,’ I say, ‘that would be great. Thank you.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll send someone up with one.’

Once I’m checked in, I take a deep breath and draw back the heavy curtains, looking out across the town. The lights from the buildings twinkle at me.

I feel hopeful, and most importantly of all, safe.

I lay Jake down on the bed and change his nappy. He’s awake now, and staring at something above me. The shadows on the ceiling.

‘Do you like them?’ I coo. ‘Are you practising your eyesight, little one?’

He looks like a little alien, his face scrunched up and snuffly.

I tickle his chin and beam at him, but he doesn’t smile. He’s still too young for that, of course. But over the next few weeks he should start to smile when he sees me. I can’t wait.

I’ve read all the baby books. I did everything I could to prepare myself for becoming a mother. For us to become a proper family.

It hurts so much that we won’t be.

‘I love you,’ I say to him. ‘And I’m sorry your daddy has let us both down. I hope you understand that I didn’t have a choice. I had to make sure you were safe.’

I scoop him up and sit on the bed, propping him up against my knees.

‘I thought he was the answer t. . .