Even though the house was tidy there was evidence that a family lived there: expensive perfumes in the bathroom, clothes in the wardrobes (I couldn’t help but take a peak: long summer dresses, flouncy blouses, strappy sandals, a man’s linen suits), a pile of trainers in the boot room and a few board games in the smallest bedroom. There didn’t seem to be enough stuff for it to be the Heywood’s main home, it wasn’t crammed to the rafters with junk like our flat was. I suspected it was just their holiday house.
The master bedroom was in the circular turret with curved floor-length windows. A four-poster bed dominated the room, all pale oak and floating muslin. I stood gazing out at the beach and the sea beyond. I couldn’t see another soul.
I felt Jamie’s presence next to me and he put an arm around my shoulder. ‘It looks as though you can walk through the garden to the beach.’ He sighed. ‘God, Libs, what a stroke of luck.’ I turned to face him, noting the bags under his eyes, his grey complexion, and pushed down my uneasiness, convincing myself the Cornish air would be good for him. And for me. I still had nightmares about that day at school, the intruder, his assault. It was lovely to get away. To forget for a while.
I glanced at Jamie; he still dressed like a student in his polo shirt, ripped jeans and trainers. ‘We should have taken our shoes off,’ I said, looking pointedly at his scruffy Converse. ‘And we’re going to have to keep Ziggy’s paws clean. We should have bought those dog socks that we saw in the pet shop that time.’ I giggled at the thought of Ziggy in the florescent green socks. He’d never forgive us.
Jamie laughed, loud and heartily. It echoed around the house. I hadn’t heard that sound enough in the last few months and it made my heart soar.
I told myself to be happy, in that moment, that Jamie deserved this holiday, that we were lucky to spend a week in the Heywood’s wonderful home. It was a place we could never have afforded to stay in otherwise.
I wish I’d trusted my instincts. I wish we had turned around and gone back to Bath. But it’s easy to think that now, in hindsight. It’s easy to think we should have made a run for it when on that first day we had no reason to feel unsafe. That came later.
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Listen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2016
Text copyright © Claire Douglas, 2016
Cover images © Mia Takahara/Plainpicture, © Brian Harris/Alamy Stock Photo, © Martin Braito/Getty Images and © Carole Sergeant/Getty Images.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-92640-9
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
THURSDAY
1: Frankie
2: Sophie
FRIDAY
3: Frankie
4: Sophie
5: Frankie
SATURDAY
6: Frankie
7: Sophie
8: Frankie
9: Sophie
10: Frankie
SUNDAY
12: Frankie
13: Sophie
14: Frankie
15: Sophie
16: Frankie
17: Sophie
18: Frankie
19: Sophie
20: Frankie
21: Sophie
22: Frankie
23: Sophie
MONDAY
24: Frankie
25: Sophie
26: Frankie
27: Sophie
28: Frankie
29: Sophie
TUESDAY
30: Frankie
31: Sophie
32: Frankie
33: Sophie
34: Frankie
35: Sophie
36: Frankie
37: Sophie
38: Frankie
39: Frankie
40: Sophie
Epilogue: Sophie
Reading Group Questions
Acknowledgements
Read more
Follow Penguin
Copyright Page