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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
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  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
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  38. 33
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  42. 37
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  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

She reached for the words, but they teased her, fluttering away. She tried to pin them down, but she was too slow. Flicked a glance at her watch. An hour until she had to deliver. She swore. This was her most important client since turning freelance. But she couldn’t concentrate.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

C’mon, Olivia, focus. Now what was she trying to say? The subject matter was boring. As dry as dust. But they were paying her to make it sing, and she needed the money. But still Evan kept kicking . . .

Thump. Thump.

. . . and

Thump. Thump.

. . . she could not

Thump. Thump.

. . . think straight.

“Stop it.”

Her shout made him jump. “Just. Stop. It. I can’t concentrate while you’re making that noise.” She should have ended it there. Evan had stopped kicking and was struggling to sit up. But frustration with her work, the move and the long summer holidays was spilling over, and she could not prevent the despair from leaking out.

“It’s always the same, isn’t it? You’re nine now. Old enough to have a bit of consideration for others. But, no. It’s all about you, isn’t it? It’s all about your needs.”

She knew this was terrible, unkind, untrue, even, but there was a freedom in letting her fury fly, even at such a vulnerable target.

“Do you have any idea how much I do for you? And the rest of this family? I cook. I clean. I wash your clothes. So don’t sit there, thumping your feet against the sofa, while I’m trying to earn enough money to feed us all and pay the bills, to buy birthday presents and ice creams.”

And just as quickly as her anger had submerged her, it was gone, carried away on a receding tide.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for her son, to draw him to her. To apologize. “I didn’t mean it.”

But he backed away, tears swimming in his eyes, his face pale and shocked. “Why are you always so mean?” He was shouting. “I wish I had a different mum.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m tired and worried, and sometimes adults shout at children for one thing when they’re angry about something else.”

But Evan shook his head.

“You’re always angry. You always shout. I think it’s because you hate me. And I hate you, too.”

Then he was gone, door slamming, his feet thumping his anger into every step. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked and she could tell he’d taken refuge in his room.

She meant to go up to him, to comfort him, to glue together the tear. But she had a deadline, a million other thoughts in her head, and soon she was lost in her work.