A YEAR OF SECOND CHANCES
Also by Kendra Smith
The Chance of a Lifetime
A year of second chances
Kendra Smith
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Kendra Smith, 2019
The moral right of Kendra Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789541878
Author photograph © Scott Pickering
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
To the Royal Surrey County Hospital, Guildford, and its staff. Especially to the A&E team and the brilliant nurses on the Frensham Ward (see? I did write that book).
Thank you.
‘It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’
—Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Contents
Also by Kendra Smith
Welcome Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Acknowledgements
About Kendra Smith
Become an Aria Addict
1
Charlie
My heart is hammering in my chest as if a small marsupial is trying to escape. A stranger’s hand grabs my shoulder as sweat builds in my armpits. I freeze.
‘Madam?’
Nobody calls me madam.
‘Could you tell me what you’ve just been doing, please?’
A greasy little man, dressed in a crumpled suit and burgundy red tie, is holding on to my elbow and staring expectantly at me.
‘Get off!’ I shrug his hand away. ‘Who are you?’
‘The in-store detective.’
‘You don’t look like a detective.’
‘That’s the whole point, madam. Please come with me.’
I follow him into a room. My cheeks are on fire as I trip over the waste paper bin. ‘Bugger!’
A woman in a blue coat looks up at me and smiles as I sit down. It’s a stuffy little room at the back of the shop. Piles of A4 paper are on the desk next to an open stapler. Two coffee cups – one marked with lipstick – sit next to each other with dark stains down the sides. The windows are blacked out so you can’t see into the shop. The woman next to me looks posh – she’s in a lovely peacock blue coat. Maybe she’s a shoplifting liaison officer.
I should have been more careful.
‘Ladies, please can you fill these in?’ Greasy Bloke is handing us each a form.
‘Please note down any previous offences.’
As I grab the pen from him, he smiles. There is saliva on his upper lip.
‘I haven’t got any previous offences!’ Blue Coat looks out of her depth and is rummaging in her handbag for a pen.
‘Just fill it in the best you can,’ he sniffs.
‘Have you been done for, um, shoplifting too?’ I whisper to her.
She stares at me, then frowns. ‘Well, yes, actually. Saying that out loud sounds terrible!’ She’s twisting her watchstrap around and looks up at me. Nice watch.
‘Only did it for a dare, if I’m honest.’ She smiles.
‘Who dared you?’
She shifts uncomfortably in her plastic seat. ‘Well, I saw a blog post. I know it sounds rather daft, but I challenged myself.’ She laughs and curls a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I’d been looking at this website – things to do before you’re fifty – and this woman had written a post about shoplifting, about the excitement you see, so I clicked on the link – and well, I thought I’d try it. Bloody hopeless – didn’t think I’d get caught!’
I can’t help but let out a snort of laughter. ‘That’s hilarious!’ I say. ‘Hope the thrill was worth it?’
‘Not really.’ She blows her nose on a tissue she fishes out from her sleeve.
‘Right,’ says the detective, ‘I will check these and be back. Please wait here.’
‘I’m Dawn, by the way – haven’t I seen you before?’ She squints, tilts her head to one side and holds out her hand for me to shake.
‘Charlie.’ I take her hand – how formal. I shrug. ‘Nope, don’t think so.’
But she does look slightly familiar. She’s wearing a green blouse with white butterflies on it – are those cat hairs? – her blonde curls are neatly clipped back with a beaded hair slide. She’s got a round and cheery face with a broad mouth – lips covered in lip gloss – and kind, light blue eyes the colour of a swimming pool. Her nose and cheeks are red, though, and there’s a crimson mark on her neck where she’s been scratchi
ng. Her hands sparkle with a tiny diamond ring and a small string of luminous pearls lace around her neck.
‘Yes, I’ve got it!’ Her eyes light up. ‘Do you work at the gym? Rosemount Gym?’
I have seen her before. ‘Yup – I do about three shifts a week; usually one in the café and two cleaning out the ladies’ changing rooms.’
‘Thought so!’ She seems delighted with herself for solving the mystery.
‘Actually,’ I say leaning in towards her, ‘I’ve been given a month’s worth of classes at the gym – my boss’s way of saying thank you – I’m a bit nervous – all those super-fit women!’
‘Well that’s not me!’ She rolls her eyes. ‘You’ll be fine – come along on Saturday – I’ll be there. I love the name Charlie, by the way.’
I grin at her. She’s so friendly. But I’m not going to tell her my real name: Chardonnay. I changed that a long time ago. About the same time as I started getting teased at school. I came home one day to Foster Mum Number Four. She hadn’t wanted to know, didn’t want to listen to how I’d been in the toilets and heard some girls outside chant Chardonnay, Chardonnay, Chardonnay! I stayed in the cubicle for quite a while, wiped the snot from my nose on my sleeve as the loo roll had run out.
‘Ms Moore?’
Supermarket Hitler is standing next to us. Why on earth did I do it? I suppose having less than a tenner to feed my teenage son all week, the gas bill being on red and a violent loan shark on my case might explain it.
‘I will allow you to go with a caution. I’m sure you both have good reasons for your misdemeanour but I have just watched the CCTV footage again, and both incidents do appear to be quite deliberate. We won’t press charges – this time.’
Annoying little man. Gloats over his power, bit like Paul. I can’t help an involuntary shudder. All beer belly and flecks of dandruff on his collar.
A few minutes later my feet are soaking as I attempt to avoid the puddles on the pavement, but it’s useless. The stitching’s gone in my blasted boots.
A car appears out of nowhere and the window rolls down slowly. My heart freezes. Not Paul.
‘Hop in – why don’t I give you a lift home?’ It’s Dawn, thank goodness. It’s so nice to clamber into her big silver Grand Voyager with the heating on.
‘South Elton Street – thank you, it’s next to the Healy Estate.’
She shifts in her seat and looks sideways at me.
‘It’s not in the estate,’ I reassure her, ‘next to it.’
She nods.
I sink into the passenger seat and sigh. ‘What a day!’
Dawn turns to smile at me. ‘Me too!’
The windscreen wipers swish across the window. I view the traffic and road through a mesh of tiny raindrops, which blur like a camera lens would if covered in Vaseline. It’s beautiful. Suddenly my phone goes and I see Tyler’s name flash up.
‘Mum, it’s those guys again. I don’t know what to do…’ My seventeen-year-old son’s voice is raised.
‘Fu…’ I look sideways at my new friend. ‘Um, I’ll be home in a minute. I’d probably not let them in.’ I try to say this in a light sing-song voice. What a mess.
‘Salesmen – at the house! Told my son not to open the door,’ I lie.
‘Good idea,’ replies Dawn, as the wipers swish this way and that. ‘They can be such pests!’
‘Who?’
‘Those wretched salesmen! I’m always having chaps sell me dusters and whatnot – costs me a fortune! Haven’t got the heart to send them away.’
As we pull into South Elton Street, two men are standing by my door in dark coats; one of them has his hood up. Is that Paul’s silhouette?
‘Just here is fine!’ I say quickly. I don’t want my new friend to witness anything else dodgy about me.
‘Are you sure? Those chaps don’t seem to have anything to sell with them, bags, you know…’
‘Oh, they’re not at my house,’ I fib. ‘Thanks – bye!’ I quickly slam the door, but she’s not driving away. She pops her head out the window.
‘Let’s keep this our little secret, shall we?’ Her pearl necklace glistens in the dark. ‘See you at the gym! It will be a laugh!’
I nod and pull my hood up. A laugh. Easy for Dawn to say. I put my phone back into my pocket and feel the piece of paper that’s nestled in there with a number scribbled down on it. But will it work? God knows, but I need something to get off Paul my back. My mouth is dry as I clench my jaw and head to the front door.
2
Suzie
Suzie Havilland sat on a train to Waterloo and tried to stop a sob as she took a deep breath. She was remembering what happened on her way to the train station: such an idyllic moment. A mother with her beautiful toddler girl, the bright pink cheeks, a giggle as she kicked the carpet of copper leaves in the weak September sun. She was just adorable. Her blonde curls bounced out of her turquoise woolly hat and shone in the sunshine as she squealed in delight.
The mother bent over her, poked some curls back into her hat and then took her phone out of her pocket. She started swiping.
Suzie had sat at the red traffic lights and stared at them. She took a short, sharp breath and felt the familiar tightness in her throat. Why wasn’t that mother looking at her child?
I would never stop looking at her.
A car horn had honked behind her and she had jumped. She looked in her rear-view mirror. A bloke in a silver Audi was mouthing ‘stupid woman’. And then the tears. She pulled away from the lights as the salty liquid travelled down her cheeks and made its way across the fine wrinkles, her laughter lines – oh how funny – to the edges of her mouth.
She drew in to the kerb and yanked on the handbrake, turned the engine off. She placed both hands in her lap and took a deep breath. The silver Audi whizzed past her at speed and blasted its horn, making her shudder. She sat staring for a while at her cherry red manicured hands in her lap then, calmly, opened the door and got out.
She shivered as a watery sun shone on her. She had her eyes on something else and wasn’t bothered about the freezing air around her. As she walked toward the swings, she could hear a gleeful cry from the little girl pushing herself with her feet backwards and forwards, the sun streaking across the rubber flooring of the playground. The hat had been thrown off; the little girl’s golden hair was flying out behind her as she swung up and down. Laughing, squealing in delight.
Suzie walked over to a bench and sat down. The mother was nowhere to be seen. Suzie glanced around, worried for the little girl. She was just about to leap up and look for her when the mother appeared.
The mother took hold of the swing and started pushing the toddler, who giggled. ‘Higher, Mummy, higher!’ Little dimples formed in the toddler’s cheeks as well as the flush of pink from the chilly day. Suzie was mesmerised by her: she watched as she lifted up both her legs on each swing in perfect parallel unison, chubby legs encased in red polka dot woolly tights.
Suzie clutched the side of the bench and stared at her hands. Her knuckles were white.
Here was a child so very like the one she imagined she might have one day. She needed a coffee; she needed to get to work, she needed to get out of there. The mother looked over at her and smiled. A look flashed across her face, probably wondering why Suzie was there without any children. She felt utterly out of place in her work outfit, her urban high heels in a sunshine-soaked park.
The dreams had started again: remembering back to when she had, fantastically, once been pregnant. How she’d used to imagine the tiny hands and face inside her womb, even when it was only the size of a pea; she’d felt such hope – desperate for her minute miracle to survive, and then the crash. Always a crash. The blood – or, somehow worse, the face of the sonographer as Suzie lay on the bed with cold jelly on her tummy. I’m so sorry, I can’t seem to find a heartbeat… or, perhaps her favourite: well technically you’re pregnant she had been told down the phone by some twenty-something receptionist, as Suzie had fel
t blood trickle out of her.
She got up from the bench and walked unsteadily back to the car and sat there for what seemed like ages, wiping the mascara from underneath her eyes. So much for all that counselling.
Dear Dr Jones, you asked me to tell you how I felt. To write it down, in an email. To compose the symphony of – what did you call it? – ‘anger’ in my mind into black and white words. Well here is my response. I FEEL LIKE SHIT. I feel broken, I feel exhausted, I feel battered and bereft. It’s a grief that has no name. If you actually lose someone, people sympathise, but when you ‘lose’ something you never actually had…
What in the name of God was she doing? She leant back in her seat, listened to the rumbling of the train and tried to block all the painful memories. This had to stop. She hoped her plan would finally give her the peace she deserved.
3
Dawn
The day after the ‘shoplifting’ incident (Dawn could barely say it in her own head) she clicked on the link from her Favourites on her laptop and stared at the familiar website.
What All Girls Should Have Done by Fifty! Our Six-Point Plan…
Fat lot of use that got me – that wretched blog piece about how shoplifting can enhance your sex life. Well, really. A caution from a supermarket and an extremely red face. No good to my sex life at all! That young girl Charlie yesterday, I bet she has a great sex life.
Dawn thought about Charlie – about her fragile beauty, an innocence about her features. She reminded Dawn of – if a tad chubbier she honestly thought – Keira Knightley. Her complexion was pure peaches and cream – how did the young do that? She was terribly pretty even though her hair was a mess. She didn’t look like she had hot flushes. Dawn wondered why she was shoplifting.
It was nice to sit down after all that vacuuming – even though she’d had to spend half an hour dismantling the Hoover as yet another Nerf Gun bullet had been lodged in the filter. Her mother-in-law Joyce always said, ‘Dawn, housework will never be noticed unless it’s not done!’ Dawn took a sip of her Earl Grey tea in its pretty bone china mug decorated with snowdrops and sighed. Joyce was right.