Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Books by Sheryl Browne
- Dedication
- KARLA
- 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
- Epilogue
- The Affair
- Hear more from Sheryl
- Books by Sheryl Browne
- A Letter from Sheryl
- The Babysitter
- The Second Wife
- Acknowledgements
I nod, but I don’t turn to him. I can’t bear for him to see me like this. I can’t bear to see me like this. I will rouse myself. I have to get up today and function on some level. Try to repair the relationship with my children, whose behaviour around me now is stilted, their looks guarded.
Hearing Jason’s heavy sigh as he walks away, closing the bedroom door softly behind him, I close my eyes, burrow deeper into my cocoon and allow the fresh tears to fall.
My mind drifts for a while, searching for happier memories to latch on to. Try as I might, as horribly sorry for myself as I’m feeling, I can’t seem to find any that aren’t tinged with sadness. Somewhere between consciousness and slumber, I am in another time, another place, another bed, thin winter sunlight filtering through the gaps in the curtains. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I strain my ears for the sounds of birdsong, people stirring, the familiar soft sounds of my sister sleeping. Nothing. The stillness is profound.
‘Sarah?’ Glancing across to her twin bed, I whisper her name. She doesn’t respond, even to grunt moodily, as she usually does, and wriggle away from me. Pushing my duvet back, a shiver runs through me as the icy air greets me. I hitch my legs over my bed and pad towards her, my small feet making no sound on the thick carpet.
‘Sarah?’ Goosebumps prickle my skin, and I whisper more urgently. She doesn’t hear me. She is lying on her back, her eyes closed, her expression… serene. Her skin is pale, like alabaster. Obliquely, I’m reminded of the porcelain dolls we coveted when visiting a doll shop in Knightsbridge. Her lips are strangely blue.
‘Sarah, wake up.’ My voice is small. I’m growing scared, angry. I don’t like this game. ‘Sarah, stop it.’ I reach out to touch her, warm flesh against cold, and my hand recoils in an instant. And then someone is screaming, loud, long and piercing. Seconds pass – firm arms encircle me, a voice tries to shush me – before I realise that someone is me.
Then I am startled by a nearer sound: my children’s voices permeating the shrill noise in my head; the slam of the front door.