This book could not have been written without the help of Lisa Kirsch, Nurse Rebecca Canny, Detective Joe Griffin and Dr Nikki Sweeney. Thank you, Lisa, for your bravery and raw honesty. Thank you, Rebecca, for your work in the NHS and for giving me so much time and technical information. Thanks, Garda Joe Griffin, for walking me through an arrest and court case and finally, to Dr Nikki Sweeney, for talking to me about medicine and addiction services in prison.

A very special thanks and big love to my agent, Sheila Crowley. Thank you for your unwavering support, brilliant advice, patience and light. To all in Bonnier, Kate Parkin, Jane Harris, Georgia Murray and especially to my editor Margaret Stead, who added phenomenal value to this book: THANK YOU. It’s an absolute joy working with you all.

Thanks to my friends and family for putting up with me.

Thanks to my husband for your kindness.

I love you all.

Look out for Anna McPartlin’s next novel

2010

Caroline has hit rock bottom. After years of trying, it’s clear she can’t have children, and the pain has driven her and her husband apart. She isn’t pregnant, her husband is gone and her beloved dog is dead.

The other women at her infertility support group have their own problems, too. Natalie’s girlfriend is much less excited about having children than her. Janet’s husband might be having an affair. And then there’s Ronnie, intriguing, mysterious Ronnie, who won’t tell anyone her story.

1974

Catherine is sixteen and pregnant. Her boyfriend wants nothing to do with her, and her parents are ashamed. When she’s sent away to a convent for pregnant girls, she is desperate not to be separated from her child. But she knows she might risk losing the baby forever.

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Read on for an extract . . .

Prologue

May 2010

Caroline was doubled over in the front seat of her car. Pain seared through her.

No big deal.

She was pretty much bathing in her own blood by now but not panicking.

Everything’s A-OK.

Her hands were shaking and her legs weak. She gripped onto the steering wheel to steel herself for what would be the big one, the one that would feel like a knife or skewer being shoved up her arse.

Could be worse, could be on fire.

She began breathing in and out slowly and with her eyes closed.

Here we go. . .

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

Yip, there it went. She was glad she was parked in her driveway. The last one happened while she was on the M50. She had nearly driven into the back of a truck with a chemical warning and taken out half the motorway. She could see the headline blazed across the front page of a national newspaper: Woman on her period blows up Dublin.