198 pages

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The World Outside My Window , livre ebook

Boldwood Books - Clare Swatman

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198 pages

English

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Description

'Unputdownable - Swatman's story weaving is perfection. Loved every minute of this heartfelt read!' Rachel Dove

Laura is watching the world go by without her.

Unable to leave her house since suffering a trauma, Laura is stuck gazing out of her window at Willow Crescent, relying on husband Jim and best friend Debbie for help.

Then one day, Jim doesn’t come home.

A day becomes two, days become a week, and still no sign of Jim. And with the police half-hearted in their efforts to look for him, Laura is forced into a decision. She’s going to have to face the world outside and find her husband herself.

But what Laura hasn’t realised is that Willow Crescent is a community, eager to help. From Arthur and Carol next door ready to rally the neighbours, to Marjorie and her daughter Faye at number nine looking for their own reasons to engage with the world. From Sonja at number seven who thinks she may have seen Jim in London, to widower Ben at number four who understands all about being lonely. Laura has a world ready to embrace her if she can just find the nerve.

And when it slowly dawns on them all, that the Jim they thought they knew, may have been hiding some unfathomable secrets, Laura has a choice – retreat back behind her window, or start living the life that was waiting for her all along.

This is Clare Swatman's tour de force. At the same time emotional, uplifting, page-turning and breath-taking, Laura is a character you will never forget.

Praise for Clare Swatman:

'A sensitive, touching story with emotional depth and page-turning quality' Helen Rolfe

'I loved The Night We First Met by Clare Swatman. Warm, romantic and wonderfully written, it's an emotional and thought-provoking read with such relatable characters.' Debbie Howells

'{::}The Night We First Met is a beautiful love story that vividly evokes time and place, transporting the reader… and leaves you rooting for everyone who is brave enough to follow their heart and not their head.' Victoria Scott

'Heart-breaking and life-affirming in equal measures, Before We Grow Old is the tender story of a chance meeting between former childhood sweethearts Fran and Will, and is packed with secrets and revelations. Through her beautiful writing, Clare Swatman delivers a powerful lesson in learning to love with your whole heart and accepting the same, no matter what life throws at you.' Sarah Bennett

'Irresistible . . . A delightfully bittersweet story that will appeal to fans of One Day' - Sunday Mirror

'The Night We First Met is a breathless story of enduring love that will fill your heart and give you hope.' Laura Kemp

'The Night We First Met is such a special book, filled with broken and relatable characters, who you can't help but love. Just Gorgeous!' Emma Cooper

'The Night We First Met'{::} is a gorgeously romantic, sliding doors love story about how The One will find you in the end.' Katy Regan

Sujets

Royaume-Uni

Family Life

Great Britain

The Women

Feminism

United Kingdom

Woman

Agoraphobia

Neurodiversity

Friendship

21st century

Reino Unido

Coming of Age

Women

Feminist

Mashups

Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	05 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781802806847
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0900€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE WORLD OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

CLARE SWATMAN
For Jeanne with love
CONTENTS

Prologue

I. Lost

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

II. Searching

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

III. Found

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

More from Clare Swatman

Also by Clare Swatman

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
MARCH 1991

It was almost midnight, as it often was by the time I staggered out of the restaurant after a long shift. Rain had transformed the pavements and roads into slick, shimmering lakes, and as I pulled my car out of the tiny staff car park I smiled. There was something special about London at this time of night. It felt as though the city had fallen into a deep slumber, and the roads were deathly quiet as I wound my way northwards towards East Finchley.
Fifteen minutes later I turned onto my street. The rain had begun again in earnest and I squinted through the windscreen, the ancient wipers losing their battle against the sudden downpour as I searched fruitlessly for a parking space.
I crawled past my flat and slowly down the street until finally I found a space a couple of hundred metres from my front door, just big enough to squeeze my little Fiat into. It felt like a small triumph.
As I locked the doors I felt a rumble of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. The sudden downpour had ended as quickly as it had begun, and while the pin-drop peace might seem magical from the safety of a car, there was a menacing undertone to a darkened London street, and I hurried my pace, key wedged firmly between my fingers as a weapon, just in case.
The moment my flat loomed into sight, the tension began to drop from my shoulders. Although my husband, Jim, was away, the hallway light I’d left on earlier still glowed like a welcoming beacon. I checked my watch: 12.24 a.m.
I’d be inside any second, stepping through the door into the safety of our flat. I hitched my bag up onto my shoulder and took a few more steps.
It happened without warning. Staccato movements. Beats of terror.
A knock against my elbow.
A hand on my mouth.
A stifled scream.
A stumble; blinding pain.
Primal, all-consuming panic.
Fury rose in me as I tried to jab my elbow into my attacker’s face. But his vicelike grip held me firm. Fury turned to terror as I was dragged towards a narrow pathway between two houses. I dug my heels in, frantic, desperate, but it was hopeless. He was stronger than me. I stood no chance.
Then we were engulfed in blackness, the street lights positioned so that no one passing the end of the alleyway would ever see us. A face loomed, tiny eyes in a black balaclava.
‘Make a noise, and I’ll kill you,’ he hissed. His body pressed against me, and I realised I was trapped between him and the wall. I frantically dragged air in through my nostrils, in two, three, four, out two, three, four. Breathing was all I could concentrate on. He tugged at my waistband and I screamed, but no sound came out. Terror rose in me with every second.
I couldn’t let this happen, just yards from home.
His hand moved inside my trousers and pulled hard. I heard a rip and tried to kick out, but he pushed my legs apart roughly.
Then a glint in the darkness and I froze, paralysed with dread.
A knife.
For a few seconds we were both utterly still. Then adrenaline kicked in and I sucked in as much air as I could and tried to scream again. But a dizzying pain filled my head, my neck, my face. He’d smacked my head against the wall. I slumped down, all fight gone as my body roared with pain.
This was it. This was the end.
A shout then, and the eyes in the mask froze. Hands ripped away, footsteps receded. I was suddenly alone again, hunched on the cold wet ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
As quickly as it had begun, it was over.
I stayed there, curled into a ball, for what could have been seconds or hours. Then someone spoke in the dark – ‘Are you all right?’ – and I knew I was saved. A man had been walking his dog, had heard noises from the alleyway. He’d given chase, and called the police. My saviour.
He helped me up, walked me home and stayed with me until the police arrived. He made tea and spoke to the officers and gave a brief description of the man who’d attacked me, for what it was worth. We all knew he’d never be caught.
I stayed up for the rest of that night, too terrified to sleep. The police wanted me to go to the station and give a statement, but I refused. When Jim returned from work the following day he begged me to go, but I still said no.
Two weeks he stayed at home with me, desperately trying to get me to see the GP, the police, to consider returning to work.
But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even contemplate crossing the threshold of the flat. Because something told me that if I just stayed in the safety of my own four walls, nothing bad could ever happen to me again.
I haven’t been outside since.
PART I

LOST
1
17 SEPTEMBER 1992

Laura Parks hasn’t left her home for more than eighteen months. Neither has she spoken to another soul apart from her husband, Jim, and best friend, Debbie, in all that time. She’s only aware of the passing of the seasons thanks to occasional snapshots of the outside world through gauzy net curtains, and slices of life glimpsed through narrow gaps between blinds.
And now, Laura has been abandoned. At least, it’s beginning to look that way.
Because Jim hasn’t come home.
Here she is, hovering by the window, squinting into the cul-de-sac, making deals with herself. Perhaps, she reasons, if she stands here for ten more seconds, he’ll appear.
Ten seconds pass. Another thirty seconds, then. That should be enough.
She feels her heart skitter inside her chest as she peers through the blinds, angling herself so that she won’t miss her husband’s familiar figure the second he rounds the corner, while avoiding revealing the whole street at once. Her gaze flicks to the clock above the fireplace and back again. He’s now an hour late. He’s never an hour late.
She inches closer to the glass until her nose lightly touches one of the vinyl slats. Dust shoots up her nostrils, making her want to sneeze, and as she breathes out, the glass behind the blind mists, clears, then mists over again. It’s getting darker now, spaces between the houses opposite rapidly turning grey, smudged with shadows. An early evening breeze tickles the treetops, making the leaves dance, and a few float to the ground, zigzagging through the air before brushing the earth with barely a murmur. It’s peaceful outside now, everyone finished with their lawn mowing, hedge cutting, car washing. Lights are being switched on in living rooms, smoke rises from chimneys. There isn’t even the usual bored teenager doing keepy-uppies by the kerb to disturb the peace.
She starts suddenly, her pulse quickstepping as a movement catches the corner of her eye by next door’s hedge. But when she looks more closely, it’s gone. A fox, probably, or next door’s cat.
She pulls back, angry with herself, and picks up a glass from the coffee table. There’s less than an inch of clear liquid left in the bottom, so she tips it down her throat and stalks into the kitchen to top it up, the vodka splashing onto the worktop as she pours with shaking hands. She takes another gulp and closes her eyes, leaning against the counter for support, and listens to the drum of her pulse in her chest, her temple, her limbs. She feels weak with worry.
The sudden peal of the telephone breaks into her thoughts and she almost screams with fright.
‘Jim?’ Her voice fires out like a bullet, hope flaring in her chest as she smacks the plastic receiver against her ear, the twisted wire swinging forlornly.
‘It’s me.’
Her shoulders sag, stomach dropping with disappointment.
‘Oh, hi, Debs.’
‘Don’t sound too pleased to hear from me.’ She hears her best friend swallow and pictures her sipping the cup of tea she always has on the go. There’s a rumble of the TV in the background and she imagines Debbie’s kids stretched across the carpet on their bellies watching Blue Peter or Pingu , their favourite.
‘Sorry. I just—’ The words stick in her throat.
‘Has something happened?’ The concern in Debbie’s voice is clear now, and she feels a stab of guilt that she always puts her best friend through so much worry when she has such a lot on her plate already.
‘It’s Jim,’ she croaks. ‘He’s missing.’
A second of silence, then: ‘What do you mean, missing?’
A pulse beats in her temple, and she swallows. ‘He’s not home yet.’ Saying the words out loud make it feel all too real and she starts to shake.
‘Do you want me to come over when Steve gets home?’
She hates that she’s so needy, that Debbie even has to ask this question. She’s thirty-three years old, she should be more than capable of looking after herself. But she’s always had someone there as a crutch – Mum, Dad before he disappeared like a wisp of smoke; Debbie and, for the last seven years, Jim. The thought of being alone makes her feel as though she’s been hollowed out, or lost a limb.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. You stay with the kids.’ She takes a sip of her vodka and realises the glass is already empty. ‘Jim will be home soon, I’m just being silly.’
‘You’re not being silly, darling, you never are.’ Laura can hear the concern in her friend’s voice. ‘But I do think you’re right. I’m sure Jim will be home soon.’
Laura swallows down a sob at her kindness and whispers, ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Debbie goes quiet for a minute but Laura knows she