Chapters (78)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Remarkable Praise for Nicci French
- Also by Nicci French
- About the Publisher
But she did. And she saw in her mother’s face as she looked at her that she did. She wanted to hide herself, not have to see such tender concern. She turned away.
“What day is it?” she asked.
“It’s Friday.”
No wonder she felt hollowed out. When had she last eaten?
“The car’s parked outside,” said her mother. “Illegally. Let’s go before I get a ticket.”
“Go?”
“You’re coming home for a few days.”
Jude didn’t know how to process this.
“What about the cat?”
“Can’t you get your neighbor to feed it?”
“I don’t know the neighbor.”
“Grab what you need and I’ll go and ask him.”
“Thank you,” said Jude meekly.
“It’s going to be fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“I’ve made such a mess of everything. Every single thing.”
Fifty-Three
For the first two days Jude was like someone recovering from a long illness: no longer sick, but weak and easily exhausted. She slept a lot, or sat downstairs with a book in her hand that she didn’t read. She looked out at the garden in its winter bareness. She went for short walks with her father, who was awkward and solicitous. She didn’t cry, but sometimes she found hot tears seeping from her eyes. She didn’t think about what had happened to her, what she had done, but often thoughts found her out, especially in the small hours. She had dreams that she couldn’t remember when she woke, but they left her feeling shaky and scared.
On the morning of the third day, her mother came into her bedroom with a mug of coffee and an almond croissant warm from the oven, put them on her bedside table and, instead of leaving the room, took a seat in the chair by the window.
“So,” she said and gave a preliminary cough.
“I know,” said Jude, sitting back against the pillow and taking a sip of coffee.
“What do you know?”
“I know I’ve got to pull myself together.”
She thought about that phrase. It made sense, for she did feel that she had unraveled and come apart, ripping at the seams of her old identity. But the idea of fixing herself made her feel wretchedly tired. She didn’t know where to begin.
“I was thinking you should talk to someone.”
“You mean a therapist?”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Jude. Her mother’s face brightened. “When I’m in London again, I’ll do it.”
“You can stay here as long as you like, you know that.”
“I have to go back. For a start, I have a job.” She gave a miserable laugh. “I hope.”
“What’s happening with work?”
“They’ve been trying to contact me.” She thought of the dismaying pileup of emails and voicemails and texts. “I’ll sort it out today.”
“Good.”