If You Go Away
About the Book
If he goes, he will become a killer or be killed. If he stays, he will be imprisoned, perhaps shot.
These are the choices Howard Henderson, brilliant young playwright, faces. He cannot comprehend his fellow man’s eagerness to fight a faceless enemy. He has seen the worst of humanity at the Front; he wants no part of it.
If she follows her heart, she will be disgraced, ostracised. If she follows convention, she will be bored, isolated.
These are the options for debutante Vivian Foster. When war breaks out on her wedding day, her distant, traditionalist husband immediately joins up and she is left alone to create a life on a Derbyshire farm, far from the glittering world she knows.
Amidst the inhumanity of war can beauty be found? Or does Howard and Vivian’s friendship simply present more unbearable alternatives? Go to war or never look your lover in the face again. Save your dearest enemy. Or go to hell.
About Adele Parks
Adele Parks worked in advertising until she published the first of her fourteen novels in 2000. Since then, her Sunday Times bestsellers have been translated in to twenty-six different languages. Adele spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right, so she works closely with The Reading Agency as an Ambassador of the Six Book Challenge, a programme designed to encourage adult literacy.
Want to find out more about Adele? Visit her website for the latest news on her upcoming events: www.adeleparks.com, head to Facebook for exclusive extras: facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks and chat with Adele on Twitter @adeleparks.
Praise for Adele Parks:
‘A heady cocktail of love, class and beaded frocks. Her most accomplished novel yet’ Daisy Goodwin
‘Dramatic and swooningly romantic, this is historical fiction with real heart’ Marie Claire
‘Simply unforgettable’ Lisa Jewell
‘As always, Parks is brilliant on friendship, relationships and family, plus this time round we’re treated to deftly observed period detail: the dresses, the social etiquette, the frightfully dashing suitors. Utterly compelling’ Glamour
‘A wonderful exploration of love’ Katie Fforde
‘Be warned, you might nearly miss your bust stop (like I did) you’ll be so engrossed. Plus there’s a mighty twist at the end’ Woman
‘Will captivate you from the first page’ Closer
‘A beautifully written, thoughtful exploration of love and loss . . . This is Parks at the top of her consistently excellent game and is one of those rare books you won’t stop thinking about until long after you turn the final page’ Daily Mail
‘A wonderfully absorbing tale of friendship, rich in period detail’ Stylist
Copyright © 2015 Adele Parks
The right of Adele Parks to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
This Ebook edition was first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2015
All characters – apart from the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.
eISBN: 978 1 4722 0550 6
Cover photographs© Susan Fox/ Trevillion Images (letters); CURAphotography/ Shutterstock.com (portrait); hxdbzxy/Shutterstock.com (background)
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Contents
Title Page
About the Book
About Adele Parks
Praise
Copyright Page
Also by Adele Parks
Dedication
MARCH 1914
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
APRIL 1914
Chapter 7
MAY 1914
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
AUGUST 1914
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
OCTOBER 1914
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
NOVEMBER 1914
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
MARCH 1915
Chapter 23
MAY 1916
Chapter 24
JUNE 1916
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
JULY 1916
Chapter 29
AUGUST 1916
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
SEPTEMBER 1916
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
SEPTEMBER 1918
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
JUNE 1923
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
By Adele Parks
Playing Away
Game Over
Larger Than Life
The Other Woman’s Shoes
Still Thinking Of You
Husbands
Young Wives’ Tales
Happy Families (Quick Read)
Tell Me Something Love Lies
Men I’ve Loved Before
About Last Night
Whatever It Takes
The State We’re In
Spare Brides
If You Go Away
For Conrad,
my independent thinker
MARCH 1914
1
27th March 1914
Dearest Diary, I have waited for such a long time for today. Eighteen years, nine months and ten days. My entire life. Forever.
VIVIAN CAREFULLY UNDERLINED the word forever and in a somewhat uncharacteristic gesture hugged the diary to her as though it was a child. Vivian Foster wasn’t prone to being especially giddy – amongst her friends she was considered the most knowing and realistic – but today was, without doubt, exceptional.
Forever? There must have been a time when she wasn’t aware of how important marrying was, when she was just a child and concerned with paddling in streams, making perfume from crushed rose petals or picking brambles. Then all she’d waited for was the next sunny day. She just couldn’t remember that time. Perhaps she’d written what she had because writing in diaries made her nervous. Stomach fluttery. She was not sure she wanted to be so known, and certainly not by her already far too controlling mother, nosy younger siblings or a cheeky maid, which was the risk. Diaries were dishonest. When she wrote in hers, she fell into a persona that was quite close to her best self but far from her true self, an insurance against prying eyes. She kept her true self buried practically all of the time. Eighteen-year-old girls weren’t exactly encouraged to say what they thought; in fact they weren’t encouraged to think at all. Writing that she had waited ‘forever’ for this day was the sort of thing that could not cause any real trouble; it was the type of comment that people expected young, virginal debutantes to write. Naïve. Forgivably imprecise.
Almost the entire Foster family understood the importance of today. Vivian’s two younger sisters Susan and Barbara (the latter known to all as Babe, as Mrs Foster’s way of signalling to Mr Foster that there would be no more babies) were obligingly awestruck. They sat on Vivian’s bed, mouths slightly ajar, eyes glazed with excitement, as she wafted around her room, opening the wardrobe door, fingering the tin of talcum powder, playing with the ribbons on her dresses, until she sent them back to the nursery with an imperious wave of the arm. Of course they were impressed. Vivian was older than them (by two and six years respectively) and had been attending balls whilst they were tucked up in bed, a fact that was too compelling for them to ever consider contradicting her. Her brother Toby, four years her junior, was nonplussed. His gender gave him a strong sense of superiority that, somewhat annoyingly, overrode the age discrepancy.
It was absolutely true to say that since coming out eight months ago, Vivian had been waiting for this exact day, and there wasn’t a huge difference in her imagination between eight months and forever, because before she came out, she was more or less nothing.
She was simply waiting.
A schoolgirl who could be bossed and directed by almost anyone: parents, close and distant relatives, Nanny, the governess, neighbours, the vicar and anyone Mrs Foster had ever been intimate with, who still might be found in the drawing room on Thursday ‘at homes’. Providing a person was old and wealthy enough to have opinions, it was accepted that they could foist them upon young girls, who had to receive them (however ridiculous) in silence. That was why Vivian believed today to be so important. Everything changed.
Sometimes it had seemed as though this day would never come around; irrationally she’d feared that longing for it so ardently might lead to a catastrophic, logic-defying interruption to the passage of time, but time had ultimately surrendered and the day had arrived.
Nathaniel Thorpe.
The big, athletic sort, over six feet tall, straight white teeth, blond hair, lashes a woman might envy and a chin a man might lose an eye on. He was always ruddy and muddy from the games he played: football and rugby, cricket in the summer. He was forever shooting or hunting or riding. The things people said of him. Vigorous. Handsome. Dashing. Eminently marriageable. Evidently desirable. He left her feeling tremulous.
She’d known of him for years, although they’d only been able to speak once she came out. He was her aunt’s neighbour and the sole reason a month in the country every summer, since she was thirteen years old, had been bearable. His family owned hundreds and hundreds of acres of land, perhaps thousands, all around her aunt’s village, as far as the eye could see. She’d often watched from the upstairs windows, longing for that rare occasion when he was home from Eton and she might catch him, his cousins and friends discharging their guns and making their horses sweat as they galloped across the adjacent fields chasing something or other: a fox, a hare, good times. She had wondered how rich he was exactly. There seemed to be no limit as to what he could afford. It was hard to imagine. He’d finished at Oxford. Or maybe it had finished with him; it wasn’t clear if he’d been sent down or had even gone up. Even though they were friendly now, it was not the sort of thing she could ask. She didn’t want to bother or nag. Her mother no doubt had made enquiries. Discreetly. She’d have wanted to know if there were debts or prospects, scandals or intentions. She couldn’t have heard anything too awful or off-putting, as Vivian had been allowed to pursue him. Gently, appropriately, unobtrusively. There was a way to do these things.
She knew that.
Well before her own coming-out ball she’d been instructed as to what she needed to do to draw his attention. She was lucky enough to have been born with what everyone agreed to be the sort of face that – more often than not – pleased. It was the first and last thing people thought about her. She was lovely to look at. They never wondered whether she was kind or reliable, able or resourceful. She wasn’t encouraged to give these attributes too much consideration either.
Mrs Foster often began her days with a quiet feeling of superiority. It was hard not to. Her daughter had been such a success this season. As a child her relentless energy and impulsiveness had, frankly, been rather exhausting, but it was a skill that transferred quite nicely now they were husband hunting. Vivian was obsessively attentive to her grooming. Her hems did not dare to hang; the maids in the powder rooms at dances never had to come to her rescue with a quick stitch – she was far too in control to need that sort of service. Other girls were so sluggish and neglectful by comparison. Vivian’s younger sisters would linger in bed far later than was polite if permitted. Susan in particular had a slow sort of nature. Her voluptuous figure was testament to that; she was entirely lacking in will power. So many girls, restricted by corsets and convention, only ever moved languidly, as though they were wading through wet sand. Vivian was altogether different, luckily. She was sprightly. Energetic. Every bit of her had a use; there was nothing unnecessary or wasteful.
Of course, as a mother, Mrs Foster had a duty to control and direct that energy, subdue her impulsiveness. It was a good thing her daughter was noticed, but she didn’t want her to be set apart. That would be a catastrophe. Vivian was trained and instructed on the importance of utilising her looks, charm and energy to the full but never hinting at wilfulness or independence. She must delight absolutely everyone. She had listened and soon the mothers trusted her, the fathers were charmed by her, the other girls adored her and the men insisted they would fight duels for her, if such a thing still went on. The opinion was that despite her waning family fortune, Vivian Foster was a success. Behind their fans the more honest chaperones often commented that she put other young ladies in the shade. She had something rare.
Mrs Foster’s feeling of superiority would have been entirely obliterated if she’d known that occasionally Vivian stood naked in front of the mirror admiring her lean long legs, her tiny waist, her small but pert breasts, whilst thinking it such a pity that no one else ever got to see any of it. She was used to accepting compliments about her face, hair and eyes; she could only imagine the sort of things he might say about the rest of her body. And imagine it she did as she gently trailed her fingers down her body. Luckily Mrs Foster’s peace of mind was never disturbed, because her involvement with her daughter was formal, superficial, while Vivian, for her part, understood the value of secrecy. She never undressed without wedging a chair under the handle of her bedroom door.
For all Nathaniel Thorpe liked hunting and shooting and fishing and what-have-you, Vivian was relieved to discover that he also spent a lot of time in London. Young men did. Why wouldn’t they? This was where the best parties happened. Vivian believed she simply couldn’t live anywhere else, although when she said as much to her mother, Mrs Foster simply raised her eyebrows and commented that Vivian would live wherever her husband decided she’d live. Vivian had mumbled ‘Poppycock’ under her breath.
‘What did you say?’ asked Mrs Foster, who believed she had a right to her daughter’s every thought.
‘I said you’re probably right, Mother.’ Vivian threw out a disingenuous smile.
‘I am right. I’m always right.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Mrs Foster had endeavoured to tell Vivian the basic facts of life, although she was keen to avoid going into embarrassing or tedious detail. Instead she offered three rules, two of which had subsections. One, Vivian was told never to travel alone in a railway carriage with a man. Two, she was never to contradict or interrupt a potential suitor when he was talking, though she should stop him if he tried to touch her body anywhere higher than her elbow or knee. Three, she was never to discourage any man who asked for a dance, but she should not allow a chap more than two dances in a row.
Vivian was aware that this was inadequate preparation for anything much, most of all a season.
Her friends were a far better source of information. Even before she came out, she’d heard the words adultery (something old marrieds did) and fornication (something maids and sluts did); and, more shocking still, therefore necessitating a Latin word, cunnilingus (something she couldn’t imagine anyone really did).
She was curious.
In the past year, Vivian had sent herself to sleep by rubbing her stomach, a slow, circular caress. The tips of her fingers became familiar with every sensation her nightgown could provide: the smooth rise of embroidery, the flat glide of ribbon, the slight friction offered up by cotton. She liked to feel her bumpy ribs, the gentle inward curve of her waist and then the hardness of her hip bones. It wasn’t long before she started to send herself to sleep by laying her hand flat on the mound that created a triangle between her hip bones and where her legs joined. It felt warm, safe, to leave it there. Then she wanted to know what it would feel like if there wasn’t the barrier of fabric. She told herself there was no harm, it was her body. No one need know. Yet it stirred a sudden muted pang, a quickening of the beating of her heart. When she slipped off her bed socks and allowed one foot to stroke the other, she could almost imagine someone else touching her bare flesh. She moved the foot up her calf to the back of her knee. No one had ever touched the back of her knee. She had no idea! Soon it was only ever enough if her fingers crept up under the hem of the nightdress and danced across her entire body.