Cross Her Heart: The gripping new psychological thriller from the #1 Sunday Times bestselling author. Sarah Pinborough
Cross Her Heart: The gripping new psychological thriller from the #1 Sunday Times bestselling author
and then it dawns on me. ‘That dumb bitch in the pub who knocked my bag over.’
‘What about her?’
‘I don’t remember picking my keys up.’
‘You must have.’ She looks in my bag as if maybe my eyes aren’t working properly. ‘She was helping pick stuff up. Maybe she put them in a side pocket.’
I let her look, but I’ve already searched everything.
‘Your mum’s in though, right?’ she says.
‘Yeah, but I’ll take the spare from down the side. She’ll want to change the locks if she thinks I’ve lost mine, even though there’s no address or anything on them. You know what she’s like.’
‘You don’t have to explain your mum to me, remember. The weird mums club, that’s us.’
I grin and I want to say a thousand things to her but I think they’ll all make me sound lame, so instead I say, ‘I hear ya, sister,’ and climb out of the car. ‘See you at training on Monday. But text me, bitch.’
‘Happy revising!’ she calls out, and I groan. Three exams this week, and I can’t find a shit to give about any of them.
She toots her horn as she pulls away, and I hurry down to the side gate and lift the loose brick on the wall, peeling away the taped key underneath. I know Mum will have heard the car. She’ll be waiting for me.
LISA
It’s pouring summer rain, but it’s so good to be driving Ava to school again. This used to be our everyday routine until Year Ten, when it became cooler to get the bus. It’s wonderful that my daughter is so independent and busy, but I still have a sneaky delight when she needs a lift, even though the journey takes me the wrong way to work through rush-hour traffic.
There’s no swim training this morning – and I’m glad because Ava has two exams today – and in this weather a ride with Mum is definitely preferable to waiting for the bus. For all her sportiness, Ava has never liked bad weather. She feels the cold too much, and now there’s the added worry of how it will affect the way she looks. They make me smile a little, these worries of her youth. I like how she’s preoccupied by such things, because it means her life is relatively carefree. I’ve done a good job in that regard. I don’t pride myself on much, but I do think I am, in my own way, a good mother.
The radio is on at my usual station. It’s the local one which tends to play more music from the eighties and nineties but Ava doesn’t complain. She’s head down over her phone, texting or whatever it is they do to talk to each other.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask as her fingers fly over the keyboard. I keep my tone light. It’s dangerous ground, showing any interest in Ava’s life these days. In the wrong mood – and those come more frequently recently – she can bite my head off. I know it’s normal. I’ve seen enough TV shows with surly kids in them to know I’ve had a good run before we got here, but it still stings when it happens.
‘Yeah. Last-minute nerves and stuff.’ She glances up at me. ‘Is it okay if the girls come round after my afternoon exam?’
I almost say no, there’s still a week or so of GCSEs left, but after two papers today she’ll probably need to relax. I’ve studied her exam schedule and she only has revision sessions tomorrow, so a few hours with her friends might be nice. Also – and I hate myself for thinking it – if they’re in the house, I know where she is.
‘Sure. Have they got exams today too?’
‘Lizzie has Geography AS I think. Ange is in History this afternoon with me, but she doesn’t have double Science this morning. Jodie’s all done. Her term is pretty much over.’
Her phone goes silent and she looks away, out of her water-streaked window at the headlights that dance in the muggy morning. ‘Her mum’s back in Paris again,’ she says. ‘New boyfriend there as well. I used to think it was cool her mum was away so much, but I think it pisses Jodie off a bit. Must be weird to be in that big house on her own all the time, looking after it for her mum when she could be having a great time in halls.’
I don’t know Jodie’s mother. I’ve met Angela’s a few times at parents’ evenings, and I think I saw Lizzie’s once from a distance at a swimming event, but Jodie is older and her mother obviously has her own busy life. Our girls are too old for us to have become friends through them, but we all know a little about each other. I wonder what they know of me. Worrier. Doesn’t go out much. No boyfriend.
‘She didn’t even live with her till she was about eight. Not properly. How odd is that? She’s always working away. There’s some cleaning woman who comes in, and there’s always loads of easy food in the fridge and freezer, but it must get boring to live off posh pizza and microwave meals all the time.’
Ava’s nonchalant, but she doesn’t fool me. A warm tingle floods my veins. This is almost a compliment. She might not be coming right out and saying it, but maybe my daughter is realising it’s not so bad to have a mum who’s there for you. I say nothing, but tap my hands on the steering wheel along with the end of Salt-N-Pepa’s ‘Push It’ as she goes back to her texting.
The windscreen wipers cut through the rain and along with the beat of the song, the rhythm is almost comforting. Apparently there are only a few more days of this terrible weather and then we shall all be bathed in glorious summer sunshine. Perfect timing for the end of Ava’s exams. Maybe I should suggest we go away for a weekend somewhere when they’re all done. Just the two of us, like we used to. Paris, perhaps.
‘And now for a request!’ I don’t know who this DJ is but he hasn’t quite mastered the voice they all do on national radio. The ease with which they speak. ‘We haven’t done one for a while, but this one appealed to me. The caller apparently wanted to remain anonymous – obviously shy—’
‘Or married, Steve.’ The cheeky co-host. Every show has one.
‘Oh, you’re a cynic, Bob. I’m sticking with shy. Anyway, not only did the caller want to keep themselves a secret, but they also wouldn’t give up the name of who this song was for! All they’d say is that the person would know. It was their song. And two people never forget their song.’
We’re coming up to the roundabout and I flick my indicator on, peering out to my right, waiting for my turn to go.
‘Since we have no names, I’m making this everyone’s song. All of our listeners out there so, if you’re stuck in traffic in the rain, this one is for you.’
I pull forward with the traffic, and, half smiling at the cheesiness of the DJ, reach to turn the volume up.
‘It’s a classic of 1988. Frankie Vein and “Drive Away, Baby”.’
My hand freezes and I stare at the radio as the oh so familiar tune, one I haven’t listened to in years, breaks in. I feel sick.
Leave with me baby, let’s go tonight,
You and me together, stealing into the night.
Is that a deal, is that a deal? We can make it all right.
Drive away with me, drive away, baby, let’s take flight.
The words assault me.
Me. It’s meant for me. It was our song.
An anonymous caller. The bunny rabbit. The strange feeling I’ve had of something being not quite right, that someone’s watching me, and now here’s the song, our song, requested in secret, and I think my heart might explode in my chest with the fear of it all. Frankie Vein’s husky voice fills the car, and fills my head and the years vanish and each lyric is a knife in my brain.
‘Fucking