Cover

Dedication

To mother-in-laws everywhere.

Praise for Amanda Robson

‘A fabulous rollercoaster of a read – I was obsessed by this book’

B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors

‘Fast-moving, compulsive reading’

Jane Corry, author of My Husband’s Wife

‘An addictive, compelling read, full of tension’

Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend

‘Compelling and thoroughly addictive’

Katerina Diamond, author of The Heatwave

‘Characters you will love to hate and an ending that will make your jaw drop’

Jenny Blackhurst, author of Before I Let You In

‘A taut thriller full of page-turning suspense’

Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths

‘Expertly injects menace into the domestic’

Holly Seddon, author of Try Not to Breathe

‘No one does toxic relationships quite like Amanda Robson’

Sam Carrington, author of The Open House

‘Twisty, taut, vibrant and addictive.

The queen of the page-turner’

Caroline England, author of My Husband’s Lies

‘A compelling page-turner on the dark underbelly of marriage, friendship and lust’

Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle

1

Saffron

I look across the breakfast table at my husband, Miles, and the reasons I married him move towards me with certainty. We are in tune, both physically and mentally. Why do I ever doubt him? It’s not Miles I have problems with, but you, Caprice. His mother. A frail and lonely widow, with kind eyes and a swan-like neck? Or the mother-in-law from hell with a witch’s cackle for a laugh? Whichever, you have infiltrated our lives.

You were living in the self-contained annexe that abuts our house, built especially for you. But you have decided it no longer suits. It’s suddenly become too poky, so you’ve moved in with us. And you’re here, at breakfast time, sitting next to me, cracking the top of your boiled egg with sledgehammer ferocity.

As my husband frequently points out, you are still a beautiful woman. I like to reply for your age, just to remind us both that I am young and you are old. Youth is more powerful than age, I hope, for our relationship has become a battle.

Over the years I have tried so hard to make you like me. But it was difficult from the start. You made it quite clear I wasn’t your sort of person the first time we met, when Miles invited me to your family home for Sunday lunch. A painful affair in your large, medieval hall of a dining room, which looked out onto a garden that never ended. It blended into the horizon, dripping with thousands of pounds’ worth of showcase flowers. Rupert, Miles’ father, was still alive then, presiding at the head of the table carving a succulent joint of beef.

Miles sat opposite me. A low-slung crystal chandelier dangled between us. His eyes glistened into mine, trying to encourage me to relax. Aiden, Miles’ younger brother, was sitting next to me. The silence in the room was suffocating.