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RedDoor Publishing - Booth Alison

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137 pages

English

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Sally Lachlan has a secret that has haunted her for a decade, is it now time to let it go? A chance meeting with the charismatic geneticist, Anthony Blake, reawakens her desire for love and at the same time, her daughter, Charlie, shows signs of wishing to know more about her father. Both the past and the future are places Sally prefers not to think about but if she wants to move towards a new love, she will first have to come to terms with her long-ago marriage. Only then will she be able to be honest with Charlie. And herself.

Informations

Publié par	RedDoor Publishing
Date de parution	22 mars 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781910453889
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0540€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Praise for Alison Booth
‘With crystal-clear prose and an artful warmth, Alison Booth leads us into the heart of contemporary human relationships, exposing tough – and necessary – truths. Very moving’
–Nigel Featherstone
‘Alison Booth captures the magnificence of female friendships and the tragedy of a disastrous marriage in a narrative that has the most satisfying of conclusions, hope’
– Nicole Alexander
Other fiction titles by Alison Booth:
Stillwater Creek The Indigo Sky A Distant Land
A
Perfect
Marriage
Alison Booth
Published by RedDoor www.reddoorpublishing.com
© 2018 Alison Booth
The right of Alison Booth to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Excerpt on page vii reproduced with permission of The Provost and Scholars of King’s College, Cambridge and The Society of Authors as the E.M. Forster Estate
Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders and obtain their permission for the use of copyright materials. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of the book
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Anna Morrison www.annamorrison.com
Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd
For my family
‘There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarelling on the line’
E.M. Forster, The Longest Journey (1907)
Chapter 1
THEN
The body lay on a gurney in the middle of the room. When the coroner’s assistant uncovered the head, my heart began to knock against my ribcage and I could feel the thump-thump-thump of a migraine starting.
The assistant stood back and I stepped forward.
The body was his all right. They must have cleaned him up. I put out a hand to touch the pale forehead. It was icy cold from the refrigeration. There were fine lines around his eyes and his blond hair was tousled. He was beautiful still, in spite of what had happened to him.
I waited as the minutes passed by, almost expecting to see his chest rise and fall, almost expecting to see the eyelids flutter open. I forgot about the coroner’s assistant until she gave a discreet cough. Turning away from the body, I nodded to her. As I walked past, she took a step towards me and lightly patted my forearm.
Outside, sadness and relief wavered through my head like paper kites tossed about in a high wind. I bought a copy of the Evening Standard from the newsvendor on the corner. On the front page there was yet another picture of that woman. Behind the piles of newspapers was a wire rack with yesterday’s headlines that I knew I’d never forget.
A blast of diesel fumes from a passing bus precipitated my migraine. I leaned against the mottled trunk of a plane tree. When the nausea came, I stood at the edge of the pavement and threw up in the gutter. No one appeared to notice, certainly no one stopped.
I carried on retching until my stomach hurt. After a while, a smartly dressed woman asked if I needed help. Her kindness made me weep, hot silent tears. ‘Is there someone I can call?’ she said, her arm around my shoulders.
I hiccoughed a couple of times and accepted the tissues she was holding out. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, after wiping my eyes.
And I was. That part of my life was well and truly behind me now. I could do with a drop of water though. My mouth felt parched and I could barely swallow. But before I could get on with my life there was the coroner to deal with. She was waiting for me on the steps to the mortuary building.
All I wanted was some peace for Charlie and me. But there was no guarantee that would come easily.
Chapter 2
NOW
I see the young man’s back first, as he squeezes past the passengers cramming their luggage into the overhead lockers. His fair hair curls over the collar of his cream trench coat. He is so tall he has to stoop slightly as he presses past. Now he is looking at the seat numbers on the other side of the aisle. Although people are sitting there, perhaps he thinks they are not in their rightful places: the only unoccupied seat in this part of the plane is next to me. I pick up the book and newspaper I had placed on the empty seat.
The man turns and I realise my mistake. He is not young at all; he must be in his late thirties or maybe older. His hair is not fair either, but light brown finely streaked with white, as if he’s had highlights from some expensive Bond Street hair salon.
He mumbles a greeting. I nod, hoping this won’t be interpreted as an invitation to begin a conversation. After handing his carry-on luggage to a flight attendant to stow at the back of the plane, he sits down with a sigh. I engross myself in my book, reading the same paragraph twice without taking in any of it. Then I steal a sideways look at my companion at the same time that he is sneaking a look at me. He smiles disarmingly. I smile back but don’t put down my novel.
The plane begins to taxi along the runway and in a few moments we are airborne. Below is the shimmering snake of the River Thames, and row after row of houses, an ever-expanding vista. One of those is mine, my little terrace in Kentish Town. Soon we are swooping into a thick white bank of cloud, and upwards into a blazing blue, and London has gone.
I try to read but again I’m not taking it in. The man next to me has extracted something from his briefcase, a hardback book. Without turning my head, I glance at its cover but can’t make out the title. He turns it so I can read the dust jacket, and we both laugh. It’s the new novel by Peter Carey.
We have left England far behind and are flying over water. The sea, solid like a piece of frosted glazing, is patterned with fine ripples. A few ships are dotted in the distance, like flies squashed on the glass. The sun glints off the surface, glittering and gold-rimmed.
‘Would you like lunch, Madame?’ The flight attendant holds out a tray as if she is offering rations to a particularly ill-favoured animal in a zoo.
I decline. I ate at the airport and am not hungry. But the man next to me whispers, ‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it. I’m starving.’
At once I tell the flight attendant that I have changed my mind and she passes me the tray. My neighbour thanks me profusely and makes a start on his lunch. As he opens his water cup, he says, ‘You’re not a biologist, are you? I know there are a few on this flight.’ He has a pleasant voice; more resonant than deep, it seems to vibrate from the centre of his chest.
I nod and offer him my quiche. He transfers it onto his tray. ‘So you’re going to the same conference as me,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you on the conference circuit.’
‘I haven’t been to many international ones. This is only my second.’
‘I travel quite a lot. Too much really but it’s part of the job. Why so few conferences for you?’
‘I’m a single mother.’ I watch for his reaction. I’ve grown to enjoy the male retreat on learning this information. It’s a way of preserving my independence and my cynicism.
‘That must be hard.’ His tone is matter-of-fact. The piece of information I’ve given him means nothing to him.
He takes a large mouthful of quiche. He eats quickly, as do people who are used to institutional food. Probably he was educated at a boarding school, a posh one at that. For a moment I consider telling him about my daughter Charlie, but think better of it. When he has finished he puts down his knife and fork; he smiles and asks about my children.
Only one child, I tell him and soon find myself explaining how hard it is to get away to conferences, although my daughter is a dream and has never caused me any trouble, at least not yet. He seems interested, so I tell him that she’s seventeen and doing her A-levels.
‘You look too young to have a teenage daughter,’ he says. This is the usual response, the conventional response. He is being gallant, as they always are. But today I am pleased. It’s as if I gave away my scepticism with my quiche, barely five minutes ago. I explain that I had my daughter when I was twenty. I don’t want him to think I’m older than I am.
‘You look much younger than thirty-seven,’ he says.
‘I see you’re good at sums.’ I pass him the tired-looking chocolate mousse from my lunch tray. Probably I’ve been talking too much; I resolve not to say any more about Charlie.
While he polishes off his second dessert, I speculate on his family background. He will have a charming professional wife – a lawyer perhaps – and two beautiful children, whose digital pictures he might show me later in the flight, when he opens the laptop that is almost certainly concealed in his briefcase. ‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘No kids, I’m afraid, and I’m not married either.’ He doesn’t look at me but tidies the various pieces of packaging on his tray, eventually returning them to a semblance of order. He might always be methodical or perhaps my question has unsettled him. I feel embarrassed, as if I’ve been prying. It’s my fault we are on this topic; I shouldn’t have gone on at such length about my daughter. But then I remember that he asked me first. He looks at me and grins; the awkward moment passes and is replaced by a feeling almost of ease.
The flight attendant comes by with coffee. She fills my cup first but avoids my eye. She lingers over pouring my neighbour’s coffee and offers him an additional mousse; she has several spare in the galley. After he declines, we grapple in silence with the aluminium foil covers on our pots of milk. Mine comes off with a rush; the milk spatters a