Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists. Erin Knight
But . . .’ Lorna cupped a hand to her mouth . . . ‘Good God! Someone call the modesty police if a mother nurses her child. Well I’ve got news for you, Cleo Roberts.’ Lorna’s face had gone quite red. ‘My daughter has a right to feed freely! I have a right to use my breasts!’
Isobel startled at the sound of the woman behind the counter banging away at the coffee machine. A baby began to cry over near the other window. She felt a wave of purpose wash through her, then noted the Free Wifi sign framed and hanging on the far brick wall like a gift waiting to be stolen. All those thoughts swelled somewhere at the bottom of her like a rising threat. The doubt. The ridiculousness of her goals.
She clasped her writing pad like a religious scripture.
Base Camp 1. Simple enough. Home. Home was Base Camp 1.
She scribbled the next few lines of writing as if indenting them into the page made them more achievable somehow.
2 - Job
3 - Friends
4 - Partner/Family
5 - Reputation
6 -
The pen flicked free of her grasp, skittering to the floor.
‘Whoops, nearly.’ A pair of expensive deck shoes arrived where Isobel reached. Their owner scooped up her biro and offered it back to her with a smile. She noticed it now, his boyish handsomeness, but still it didn’t matter. She mustered a polite smile in return.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. A woman after my own heart.’
‘Sorry?’ He was older than Isobel but only a decade or so, and in that way that seemed to benefit the male sex and leave the females worrying about crows’ feet and dermal fillers.
He nodded at her notepad. ‘A list-maker. The world is divided into us and them, you know. The list-makers and the billionaires, according to Forbes.’
Isobel grimaced. She would definitely be worrying about crows’ feet one day. Probably very soon. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘Forbes. According to them, the ultra-successful tend not to make lists. I can’t function without them myself. Good luck with yours, maybe you’ll buck the trend?’ Isobel watched his eyes travel to the tabletop. Oh no, was he? Bugger, he was, he was skim-reading her list. She fought against slapping a hand over her pad like a child hiding the answers to a test and glugged another mouthful of tepid tea instead. ‘Looks pretty aspirational. Hope you get to tick it all off soon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I moved to Fallenbay with similar goals. It’s a great place.’ Isobel went with another smile. ‘See you then.’
‘Bye.’ Her breathing relaxed as soon as he turned. She studied her list, the blank spot waiting next to Base Camp 6. Was it a base camp? Or was it the summit? What was it she was hoping to achieve here in Fallenbay exactly? A Happily Ever After? She was thinking on this point very carefully when something blew up in the kitchen.
‘Evie! I told you to watch that thing today!’
Isobel stopped listening to the crisis over the exploding microwave. She was zoned out. Focused. Determined again.
Home. Job. Friends. Partner/Family. Reputation.
It was an aspirational list, he was right. It was just missing one final and integral point. Item 6. She penned it in without hesitation and a wave of calmness washed over her. If Sophie was going to watch her go down this route, then this would be Isobel’s consolation prize. The best she could shoot for. The second summit. This would be what she wouldn’t leave this shiny, clean, brochure-ready town without having first crossed off her list.
She clamped her pen between her fingers.
Base Camp 6.
SUMMIT: Criminal record.
‘Muuum? I can’t see, this water is dirty, I can’t see!’
‘You’re breathing all over the glass, Maxy. Look,’ Sarah grinned and pointed Max’s rolled-up activity sheet, ‘there’s your nose print.’
Max drummed his finger against the tank. ‘How is Pete the Pleth-io-thaur going to fit into this tank though, Mummy? When they are bigger than our house?’
Sarah’s heart leapt for the occasional lisp Max had adopted. It only caught here and there, she would be robbed of it altogether once his big teeth came through. She swept the blonde hair from Max’s eyes. He could be a poster child for Fallenbay’s surf culture. People were always mistaking him for Jon’s child. Unlike Will, Max looked nothing like their father. Yet. Will had been blonder at five too though. In a heartbeat he’d become a teenager, Patrick’s dark waves steadily trampling Sarah’s genes into submission. Will had inherited most of his dad’s brooding features now; they were all Patrick Harrison had bothered leaving of himself for his children to hang on to.
‘I wish Will came to the aquarium,’ sighed Max. ‘I need a piggyback so I can see in this tank.’
‘You know, you’re pretty lucky having your very own fifteen-year-old, Maxy.’ Max was the centre of the Harrison-Hildred household, everything seemed to orbit him like a crudely evolved planetary system. Football tournaments, swimming lessons, Sarah, Jon, Will – each spinning about Max at differing rates of significance. Max’s footings were solid; it was Will always on the periphery. Why was it so tricky? Fathoming out a rhythm that worked equally for the four of them? It felt like bobbing for apples sometimes: the closer Sarah tried moving Jon and the boys towards a common centre, the further away Will bobbed.
You’ll get him back, darling! her mother had reassured. He’s a teenager, let him get his angst out of his system. Only, Will wasn’t showing any angst. She’d quite like for Will to have a blow out, break something, slam a few doors. Instead of always being on the other side of one.
You’re looking a gift horse in the mush! Cleo had snorted over their breakfast at Coast last week. Be glad Will’s not into skimpy clothes and warpaint. Have you seen Evie’s eyebrows lately? I’m not kidding, Sar, I’m thinking of hiding her stash. Why can’t I have a normal teenager? Who does alco-pops or ciggies? Why does mine have to do kohl?
Sarah felt a tug on her sleeve. Max steered her to the next exhibit. Maybe she should be more grateful for Will’s nonchalance instead of analysing it like a mad scientist, pinning it on all the change she was inflicting on him. The house move. The wedding. The intricacies of a second marriage.
Her stomach lurched. It did that rather a lot lately. You are not pregnant, she reassured herself. You’re just a liar.
‘Mummy, you’re ringing.’
‘Careful, Max, you’ll pull my arm off.’ She fumbled through her bag, ‘maybe it’s Will, changing his mind about meeting us?’ It would be nice knowing where Will was spending any of his free time nowadays. She glanced at the caller ID, flicked off the volume and slid the phone into her jacket pocket.
‘Was it Will?’ Great orbs of light and shadow slid from the aquarium walls over Max’s hopeful face.
‘Nope. Only the estate agents, kiddo. Today’s a family day, they can wait.’
A new vibration thrummed over her chest. Resistance was futile. ‘Just a second, Max. They probably want to organise the For Sale sign. Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs Hildred?’
She forgave him his mistake. Mothers in their mid-to late-thirties normally were married, weren’t they? Normally. It was all she’d ever wanted for the boys, a bit of normality. Positive role models. Love. Honesty.