The Mother’s Secret Read online

  The Mother’s Secret

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  PART TWO

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  A Letter from Kathryn

  About the Author

  Also by Kathryn Croft

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For Marti

  PROLOGUE

  We all make mistakes. Do things that can’t be undone, no matter how much we wish we could retrace our steps, pause for a single moment to consider the consequences of our actions.

  This, though, was not a mistake. I have never undertaken any action with such alacrity.

  And I have no regrets.

  You made your own mistakes, didn’t you? Yet up until your very last moment you didn’t doubt your judgement. Perhaps that was your biggest mistake, because maybe if you’d at least shown some remorse then I might not have struck that blow.

  I had to do something to stop you.

  And I was willing to do anything.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Now

  I know you lied.

  That’s all the email says.

  I check the sender’s address: [email protected]. It should be illegal to hide behind an anonymous email address. Why should a person be able to obscure their identity online? I stare at the message again. Deliberately brief – designed to incite fear. What does this person know about me?

  Next to me, Jamie sleeps, his elbow too close to my body. This is a double bed, yet whenever he spends the night it feels as though we’re stuck together in a space as claustrophobic as a coffin. With a sigh, I nudge him further away. I’m not being cruel; sometimes I just cannot bear the hot sticky feel of anyone’s flesh against mine. And now, I know I have something else to worry about.

  Jamie mumbles something, and with his eyes still closed he edges back to me, so quickly I sit up and throw the duvet off my clammy legs. It’s not even six a.m., yet sunlight streams through the window, making it feel as though it’s already ninety degrees. It’s only May and it’s being reported that we’re already having a heatwave not witnessed since the seventies, and while the whole country rejoices, I silently count the days and hours until the nights are shorter, and I can once again feel an ice-cold chill on my skin.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jamie asks, his eyes still shut. I should have known he’d wake up the second I tried to grab some time for myself. He places his hand on my back, and I feel the excessive heat through the oversized T-shirt I’ve slept in. One of Aiden’s, I think, and I wonder, yet again, why I haven’t thrown it away like I have everything else. And why I even have it in the first place.

  ‘I’ve got a load of work to do,’ I tell Jamie, stretching my arms upwards. It’s not a natural gesture; I just need something to distract me because I’m starting to feel the walls closing in on me. Because it’s time. Perhaps I’ve known this was coming, but the message pinging into my inbox this morning has cemented it in my mind. I have to do this now.

  The excuses I offer Jamie come hard and fast: I’m behind with my marking, there are sessions to plan and students coming who will expect me to be prepared. I can’t let them down.

  ‘Eve,’ Jamie says, his voice a croaky half-whisper, ‘a bit longer in bed won’t hurt, will it? Let me persuade you to stay.’ His warm hand reaches for mine.

  I flinch and pull away. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’ He has no idea how important this day is to me; he’s unaware of the nausea bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

  He admits defeat too easily. ‘Okay, spoilsport. How about I come over this evening after work? We can get a takeaway. Bottle of wine.’ Lose ourselves in oblivion, he means. That’s what we always do when we’re together. I know what I’m hiding from but what about Jamie? I’ve only known him for four months, but everything I’ve learned about him could fit on a Post-it note: thirty-three – two years younger than me; a freelance website designer; twin sisters he doesn’t get along with; and he lives nearby in Enfield. That’s it. The extent of my knowledge. It’s not that he doesn’t share information, more that I don’t let it seep into my brain. I can’t let myself know more about him. Familiarity terrifies me. And if I asked questions of him, he would do the same, and then sooner or later I would slip up.

  ‘I need a shower,’ I tell him. ‘Do you mind seeing yourself out?’

  * * *

  My small dining table is set up as it usually is for my tutoring sessions. The textbooks I’ll need are in a neat pile, my pencil case parallel to them, and a stack of loose paper sits in the middle, where either of us can easily reach it. I’ve laid out a plate of biscuits, leaving off the custard creams. It’s Maya who’ll be coming, and I’ve never once seen her eat one, although the chocolate Bourbons always disappear.

  Today, more than any other day, I welcome the distraction the next hour will bring; I don’t want to think about what this morning’s email means. Maya will appear promptly at ten a.m., if not a few minutes before, her large bag of textbooks and revision guides weighing her down. Tardiness is her enemy. ‘I hate being late, miss,’ she’d told me at our first session. ‘It makes me anxious and then I can’t concentrate for the rest of the time.’ I admire this punctuality in someone so young, and have told her so, even though I’ve never shared that I am exactly the same way.

  Right on time, she rings the buzzer at 09:59, and I promptly let her in. ‘Oh, miss, I’m so hot,’ she gasps, pulling off her thin cardigan. ‘How can it be so hot? This is London, we’re not in Ibiza!’

  I try not to shudder at being called miss; the title haunts me, reminds me of someone I no longer am, but I’ve long ago given up trying to get Maya to call me by my first name. ‘It feels weird, miss,’ she’d claimed when I first suggested it. ‘Kind of disrespectful.’ I don’t point out that as she’s eighteen, I wouldn’t have any problem with her calling me Eve.

  ‘It probably doesn’t help wearing those,’ I say now, gesturing to her skinny jeans, which have huge rips down the legs. ‘Shorts might have been a better option today.’

  She fans herself with her Oyster card and lets out a huge puff of breath. ‘Or a bikini?’ she offers, and we both chuckle.

  It’s only when Maya sits down that I realise something seems different about her today, aside from the sweat glistening on her skin, and the fact that her thick black hair is scraped back into a long ponytail. It’s not her clothes – she’s wearing one of her usual close-fitting tops, which always make me feel old. I long ago lost touch with fashion trends and now I select dark-coloured outfits that help me blend in. Clothes that make me look neither glamorous nor frumpy, just average and bland. No, it’s something else about Maya. She doesn’t seem herself.

  ‘So, only two more weeks, Maya,’ I say, pulling out two copies of an old exam paper. I slide one towards her. ‘I thought we’d work on a practice question together. How does that sound?’

  She offers a small nod and stares at the sheet, making no move to open her bag and take anything out. This is not like her. Something is definitely wrong. Immediately I assume the worst: she knows about me. It’s caught up with me before I’ve even made the attempt to put things right. Nausea once again floods through me. Could it be Maya who sent me that email?

  ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, forcing the words out. Even though I don’t want to hear her tell me she knows what I did, I need to make sure she’s all right. And she is still here after all, so maybe she wants to give me a chance to explain.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, her eyes fixed on her hands, which she fans out in front of her. I’m surprised to notice her nail polish is chipped; she’s usually so careful about her appearance.

  ‘I know I’m just tutoring you for your A-levels, but I’m not a bad listener if there’s anything troubling you.’ Please don’t let this be about me.

  Still without looking up, she opens her mouth but doesn’t speak.

  ‘Maya?’

  I can’t see her eyes, so it’s only when tears splatter onto the table that I know she’s crying. Ignoring the discomfort I feel, I leave my seat and crouch
down beside her, tentatively putting my arm across her back. She needs me, so I won’t shy away from soothing her.

  ‘Please talk to me, Maya. It’s possible I might be able to help. I’ll definitely try my best, even if it’s got nothing to do with your studies.’

  She looks up, her dark brown eyes glistening. ‘It’s not schoolwork,’ she says. ‘Nothing like that.’

  It must be family, then. All sorts of terrible scenarios cross my mind, and I try to recall what I know about her home life. As far as I’m aware, she gets on well with both her parents, and she’s close to her older sister who’s away at university. Nothing Maya’s said has ever set off any alarm bells, and I’ve been trained to look out for warning signs. I prepare myself to explain that if she’s in any danger then I will have to report it.

  ‘Then what is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurts out, her eyes wide.

  Aside from the fact that she’s only eighteen, this isn’t a catastrophe. Her words shouldn’t make my body feel as if it’s folding in on itself, as though I’m being crushed from the inside.

  And all I can think is that I am the last person she should have told.

  TWO

  Before

  I walk across the car park far too quickly, the ice beneath my feet threatening to topple me onto my back. My hand rests on my stomach but still I don’t slow my pace.

  Usually I enjoy the drive home, pleased to have that gap between work and domestic life, but right now I curse myself for wanting to settle in a different part of London than the school I teach in, just because I was worried about bumping into students at weekends. It will be at least forty-five minutes until I get back, and with every passing second I bleed more heavily.

  Somehow, though, I still have that morsel of hope in me, and I pray that it will suddenly stop, that this time it’s just one of those inexplicable bleeds which can happen sometimes. That this time my baby is still alive.

  ‘Miss Conway?’

  I don’t turn around, even though I immediately recognise the voice. Justin Foley’s father. The annoying parent who feels the need to try to meet me on an almost weekly basis, despite the fact that his son’s doing well in school and is never in any kind of trouble. In fact, Justin is likely to achieve top grades in all his GCSEs.

  If I keep walking, maybe the man will let this one go. After all, he hasn’t made an appointment, so he could just be picking up Justin and it’s just a huge coincidence that he’s right behind me in the staff car park.

  ‘Miss Conway?’ Louder this time. Closer. I want to yell at him and point out yet again that my title is Mrs, not Miss, as he always insists on calling me. The school should be able to do something about nuisance parents. The scream is right there in my throat, waiting to erupt. I should shout the words at him, let out all my pain, make sure he knows that right now I’m losing another baby and he needs to leave me alone. For a second I almost do; the words are at the edge of my tongue, ready to fire out, but I quickly reconsider. There is no way I will share my personal business with this annoying man.

  I ignore him once more and speed up. I’m nearly at my car and I fumble in my bag for my keys, longing to get home to Aiden and let out all the grief I’ve been bottling up today.

  But then he’s caught up with me and there is no way to pretend I haven’t heard him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I was calling but it’s noisy out here, isn’t it?’ He gestures to the air.

  I’ve never been grateful for the heavy roar of traffic until now. ‘Mr Foley. How can I help you?’ It’s the most professional voice I can muster and it takes everything I’ve got to produce it. All day I’ve had to plaster a smile on my face, carry on as if my whole body, and my world, isn’t crumbling.

  ‘I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to speak to Justin’s maths teacher yet. About him attending those extra evening sessions.’

  This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered why I wanted the head of year role. It’s teaching I love: being in the classroom and witnessing those light-bulb moments when a student suddenly grasps what you’ve been trying to teach them. Not this. Especially not now.

  It was only yesterday he was in my office requesting that I put his son’s name forward. Yesterday. When I still had my baby inside me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Foley—’

  ‘Alex, please.’

  ‘Um, I’m sorry but as I explained yesterday, those classes have been set up specifically for students who are behind and need extra help. Justin clearly doesn’t—’

  ‘Right, okay. I understand. But I’d really like him to have some tuition. It’s a crucial time, isn’t it? We can’t gamble with his future.’

  I refrain from pointing out how overdramatic he’s being. ‘Then you have the right to organise that outside of school, Mr Foley, but it’s not something we can provide for students who aren’t—’

  ‘I’ve got it!’ He throws his hands up and smiles. ‘Could you perhaps organise sessions for those students who are… more capable?’

  This is the first time I’ve heard him admit that his son is actually very bright. While I want to wipe the smug smile off his face, he does have a good point. ‘I’ll look into that,’ I offer, ‘but I can’t promise anything. It will all come down to funding.’ Please leave me alone now. I just need to get home.

  ‘I’ve sent you an email,’ he continues, ignoring the fact that I’m turning around, oblivious to my silent pain.

  ‘Oh, have you?’ I feign ignorance though I noticed it this afternoon, and it remains unread in my inbox; it won’t be important.

  ‘Yes, just wanted an update really. I seem to spend so much time asking you about his other subjects and I forget that you’re actually his English teacher as well as his head of year.’ His eyes flicker to my stomach, which, once again, hasn’t even had a chance to protrude. Feeling like I’m wearing a sign across me, advertising it to the world, I wrap my jacket tighter around me.

  Get rid of him. Say anything you can to make this stupid man leave you alone.

  ‘He’s doing extremely well in English, as he is in all his other subjects. You must be very proud of him, Mr Foley.’

  He smiles. That’s worked. Perhaps he’s one of those parents who just wants to constantly hear how amazing their kid is.

  ‘Thank you. That’s great. Well, I’ll let you get on.’ He starts to turn away but spins around to face me again. ‘Um, are you okay? Forgive me for saying this but you look a bit pale.’

  Hearing his concern makes it harder to keep my tears at bay. They are right there, ready to flood out, and I can’t let that happen in front of a parent. Or anyone at school, other than Sophie.

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just been a very long day.’

  ‘Okay. Keep me posted, won’t you?’

  ‘Posted?’ I can’t even remember what I’ve agreed to.

  ‘On the extra classes for Justin? His mum and I are a bit worried he’s not as focused as he could be. I’m sure you understand.’

  What is wrong with this man? His son is one of the most conscientious students I’m teaching this year. Is there no communication in their house?

  ‘Will you be taking the English classes?’ he continues, even though I haven’t answered.

  There are no extra classes. Probably never will be. Just leave me alone.

  ‘Because I know Justin thinks you’re a great teacher, and you’ve already got a rapport. It might set him back a bit if he had a different teacher.’

  This man really is something else. I have no more of a rapport with Justin than I do any of my students.

  ‘Well, that’s nice of you to say, but—’

  ‘Anyway, you seem like you’re in a rush. How about I make an appointment instead? For next week? It would have to be after school, of course, as it’s impossible to leave work too early.’

  No! I want to scream, but I don’t want to give him any excuse to complain about me. He’s just the type of parent who would do that, who would never see how aggravating he is and that he’s brought it on himself. ‘Yes, of course. Anyway, I’d better get going.’

  I feel his eyes on me as I walk away and make a mental note to give Justin even more praise than usual when I next see him, just for having to put up with this man as his father.