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Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Dawn Goodwin
  3. WHAT I NEVER TOLD YOU
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. Acknowledgements
  55. About the Author
  56. An Invitation from the Publisher

At least with Tracey at the party, I might actually have a laugh while El is busy cosying up to Brian and his mates. She will try and match me up with Jason though, so I need to have a strategy for that.

13

NOW

Helen had one foot on the stairs when Lydia arrived home, covered in dirt, hockey stick under one arm and with very little to say. She fussed over Clive, but hardly spared Helen a look, just cut in front of her and went to head straight upstairs. Then she paused, her head cocked like a puppy, her ears pricked. “Who’s here?”

“Matt has a friend over. Diana,” Helen replied.

Lydia looked taken aback for a second, then it passed. She ran up the stairs and Helen heard her bedroom door slam seconds later.

Helen followed up the stairs and paused outside Mills’ room, thought about knocking and maybe taking a moment to talk to her about the drinking. Her hand hovered over the wood, then dropped to her side. Instead, she headed up another floor to the main bedroom.

This was once her parents’ room, her parents’ bed. Helen still thought of it as her mother’s domain, no matter how many times she decorated, painted, stripped away the pomp and frills. More of a suite than a room, complete with a separate dressing room, en suite bathroom, a large stone fireplace that dominated one wall and a huge four-poster bed that held court over the rest of the space. It was all a bit ostentatious and heavy, like something out of a television period drama. The bed itself was a bit of a relic. It creaked loudly when you moved, like it was objecting to your presence, and was claustrophobically sombre. Helen had strung fairy lights around the frame before Hugh moved in, in a bid to lighten it and differentiate it from the bed in which her mother would spend days on end curled up, crying into the pillows or flinging herself around in a fit of rage at her father’s latest indiscretion. Hugh hated the fairy lights, said he couldn’t sleep with them twinkling above him, so they were on a strict timer switch. It wasn’t like Blackpool illuminations or anything, but Hugh liked simple, plain, unadorned.